


Into Elphyne

by Diglossia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Supernatural Elements, TRC Big Bang, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unnegotiated Kink, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 74,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diglossia/pseuds/Diglossia
Summary: If there is one truth about the Lynch brothers, it is that they would lay down their lives to ensure Matthew's safety and security. If there is one lie, it is that they would not do the same for each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Lovely art](http://f0x-meets-w0lf.tumblr.com/post/154666927534/declan-lowered-the-knife-jiangs-grin-grew-did) for this fic by f0x-meets-w0lf!
> 
> Thank you so much to my wonderful beta, [FalseCamaro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gandalfgirl579/pseuds/FalseCamaro)/[pr0ko](http://pr0ko.tumblr.com/)!

The beasts trampled the ground. A monstrous herd, their horns glittering with ice crystals as they pounded the earth with their hooves and filled the air with their bellows. They had been stampeding for an eternity; they had passed through in an instant. Whelk, safely interred below ground, quaked with fear. Or was it excitement?

Czerny would have had some word for it, something idiotic and strangely endearing. He would have laughed, startled and giddy, drunk on adrenaline. _Whelk_ , he would have said, _do you see what I'm seeing? The forest did this. The ley line works!_

Czerny. That was who had started all of this. If only Whelk could go back and try again. It wouldn't do to have the ley line live and under Adam Parrish's hands. With Parrish controlling it, Whelk would never get that for which he had worked so long. The ley line was his by right to control. He had spent years searching for it, had done everything he could to fix his failed attempt, and Parrish had come along and stolen all of his work. Whelk simply needed another chance.

And, suddenly, he realized he could have it.


	2. Chapter 2

They say witches know when a storm is brewing. Before anyone else, they see the clouds on the horizon, feel the air pressure change.

Blue Sargent didn't know about all that. Way she sees it, witches don't know shit. Little things they've got down but more than that? Nope.

That was what she told people who came to Fox Way looking for love advice, who wanted black magic fixes and all that. Orla said she drove away business. Blue figured she was keeping the stupid from being swindled.

There were a lot of stupid, in Henrietta and elsewhere.

She was supposed to get out of this town. She almost did once. Then she came back to visit and a man who was somewhere between a friend and an acquaintance dropped Opal off and that was that.

"Blue?" her charge asked, standing barehoof in the doorway. "Dinner's ready."

"Coming."

"Blue," Orla yelled, "if you don't hurry it up, we're eating without you!"

"I said I'm coming!" Blue stood up. She reached a hand out to touch Opal's hair and thought better of it. She patted the child's cheek. "What are we having?"

"Butter," Opal said.

So Maura was cooking.

" _Betula lenta_ for me."

"I thought you didn't like birch." Opal’s obsession with Latin had recently manifested in an interest in learning the names of every plant she’d ever come across. Wikipedia had saved Blue from a meltdown several times.

"I-" Opal cursed, a habit she picked up from her father that two years of living at Fox Way hadn't broken her of, "love birch."

"That good, huh?" Blue asked as she took Opal's hand.

Opal nods happily, prancing just a bit as they walked inside.

 

* * *

 

Blue had meant to be someone once. She _had_ been someone once, part of a great group of friends, even had two boyfriends.

Then the world crashed apart.

Blue never believed her family was all-powerful. They were quiet, fortune tellers and psychics and card readers. But she will never believe that none of them one what was about to happen. And she will never forgive them for not telling her.

So let them see her fester. Let them take responsibility for her dreams falling apart. All she had wanted was more. Now, here she was at twenty-two, living at home, taking care of someone else's child, working as a waitress and an overnight stocker. No hopes, no dreams, no prospects.

She shouldn't think like that. When he showed up, a child in his hand and an unbelievable story on his lips, she saw her despair and anger and apathy reflected back in his eyes, only magnified. He wasn't fit to take care of Opal and she had a house of women who had collectively raised dozens and who wouldn't reject a half-satyr child. When he offered her money, more than she'd need to care for the child, Blue wanted to say no. She wanted to but she hadn't and now that money was paying for online classes and the laptop to take them.

There was hope, the littlest hope, that she might be someone yet.


	3. Chapter 3

Ronan ran the weed-whacker over the hedges, taking a vicious pleasure in the way the leaves and branches went flying in great slices.

The college kids walking to class ignored him. Ronan ignored them back. Some of the guys on his work crew resented them, talked about how high and mighty they were, trust fund babies the lot of them. Ronan couldn't care less.

There wasn't much he cared about these days.

He laid the weed-whacker down and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. Fall was coming in but the weather hadn't caught up yet. It was miserably hot. If he didn't need the job, he would throw the weed-whacker down and escape into one of the many air-conditioned buildings on campus.

As it was, he needed the job.

Ronan went back to trimming the hedges into neat rows.

 

* * *

 

Ronan tossed Chainsawa turkey neck. The raven snapped at it happily before grasping it in between her beakand alighting onthe kitchen counter. She tore pieces of meat from the neck and swallowed them in that peculiar manner of birds. Ronan pulled a beer out of the fridge while she ate.

Most people assumed he got her to prove a point, to stick out. Truth was, Ronan had found a fledgling while drunk and kept her. There was a possibility he had stolen her from her nest.

Regardless, at this point, she was his oldest, most loyal companion. Ronan liked to leave the window open for her. She was nearly feral, his raven. He wouldn't be able to care for her if she weren't. Like a cat, she was in and out, in and out.

In Ronan's drunkest hazes, he imagined she understood him when he talked to her. In his clearest moments, he wondered if she was even real.

Ronan sat down on the couch and popped the cap on his beer. He rubbed his forehead.

His voicemail was blinking. Ronan didn't have a cellphone, though he hadan answering machine in case Matthew ever needed to get in touch with him (It was an unlikely occurrence but, maybe, one day). Ronan eyed it, then stood up and pressed the button.

It wasn't Matthew.

"Ronan, it's Gansey. I thought we could converse? It's been a while. Please give me a call when you get the chance."

Of the six messages in Ronan's inbox, five were much the same. Gansey, Ronan's one-time friend and roommate, asking him to call back, sounding as though it had been days since they last spoke and not years. The sixth was from Declan, which Ronan deleted immediately upon recognizing his brother's voice.

Ronanwasn't oblivious to the fact that his life has been odd. A few years ago, he and his friends stumbled upon a lost treasure trove in a Virginian cave. It was a sore subject for everyone, as the treasure, while enormous, hadn’t held what they had been searching for. In the ensuing weeks, a tight-knit group of friends fell apart, not least because one of their number had turned up dead.

Fragments of amiability had survived. Efforts had been made to regain what was lost. Still, they were a ravine scored by a flash flood, roots and bedrock upturned. They couldn't go back to what they were. Not least because part of their number had no desire to.

Ronan let Gansey's message play. He barely heard the words, searching instead for a voice in the background of someone whohe hoped wasn'tthere.

"If you're interested," Gansey said, finishing his message as he always did, "you know where to find me."

 

* * *

 

Ronan shouldn’t have come.

The ivy covered brickhouse was as beautiful as it was colonial. Weathered stone covered in dark green, it suited its main occupant, who was just now passing its threshold.

"Ronan!" Gansey said in delight. "You came!"

"Of course, I came."

Gansey ushered him inside.

A sandy-haired, tanned young man sat at a dark roll-top desk. In front of him lay a weathered, leather-bound book. Ronan’s heart surged when the man looked up.

"Ronan," Adam said. He was as ethereal as ever.

"Adam."

Ronan turned to Gansey. Adam got up and moved in the direction of the kitchen. Gansey took his place at the desk. "You said you needed my help with something?"

"Yes, I came across this text- Latin mostly but with another language entirely. Would you look at it?" Gansey swiveled in the chair. He held the leather-bound book in both hands as if it were a gift he wished to bestow upon Ronan.

"You couldn't find someone better to help you?" Gansey was surrounded by some of the most educated people in the world. Ronan had barely passed high school.

"It isn't a known language," Adam said, placing a steaming mug down at Gansey's elbow. "No one we've shown it to can recognize it."

"What Adam means-" Adam bristled- "You know I don't mean it like that- what Adam means is that it isn't a natural language."

"Blue could understand part of it," Adam added.

"And you think I can help you?"

"We think you're one of only two people who can.”

“In truth,” Gansey said slowly, weighing his words, “we think your father might have created it. It has all the markings of a constructed language. Ronan, we think your father might have _written_ this.”

"No," Ronan replied automatically. "The deal's off. I don't want any part in this. Have Blue translate. I'm out."

He stormed out of the study, down the hallway to the front door. He couldn't think about his father now. After he saw his home destroyed and his family with it? No. He’d lost too much. Whatever secrets Niall Lynch hid in that journal, Ronan wanted nothing to do with them.

Christ, he needed a drink.

He reached the front door and there was Gansey's hand to stop him. Ronan glared.

“Do you remember,” Gansey asked, “the last time we spoke?”

“Before or after we stopped being friends?” Ronan replied.

Gansey’s face became shuttered. “Before.”

"No," Ronan said and it wasn't a lie.

"Try," Gansey said. "For your own sake. Please."

 

* * *

 

Trust Gansey to find the most tangential reason to bring Ronan back into his fold.

Languages had come easy to Ronan when nothing else had. Noah used to joke that he could never decide who to cheat off of when Whelk, Adam, and Ronan were in the room. This was because Whelk was good at everything, Adam tried, and Ronan didn't have to.

That didn't mean he wanted to help Gansey with his thesis.

It had probably, Ronan was loathe to admit, belonged to his father's. He wouldn’t even be surprised if it were a forgery of some ancient tome Niall had sold to a hapless buyer. Niall Lynch was a trickster born. A smooth-talker, a crowd pleaser, and a rapscallion, he had never held a definite job in all the time Ronan had known him. It would certainly not be the first time Ronan had come across a knockoff as artfully made as it was instantly fake.

He didn't need to be thinking about this. Not today, not ever. His fingers might itch to touch the pages of his father's creation but it would pass in due time. Ronan would do best to distance himself from the man who had sired him, who had died in a grim, yet unsolved murder mystery.

Did Gansey even remember? Six years to the day.

No, Ronan was the one to choose today to engage. It must have been sentimentality making him soft.

He _really_ needed a drink.

Ronan looked up. Where the fuck was he? Cheap apartment buildings surrounded him on both sides of the street. The grass had been mown recently but it was scraggly and patchy, signs of poor upkeep. A lone, malnourished maple grew from the dirt patch next to him. He looked around for a street sign, something to give him a clue how to get back to civilization.

That’s when he noticed the man watching him. Leaning against a lamppost, scrawny arms crossed over an even scrawnier chest, he grinned when Ronan scowled at him.

"You," the man said, "look like you're in dire need of a good time."

"Does it involve beer?"

"Any kind you like, princess."

Ronan followed him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Here you go," the man said, handing Ronan a bottle. "Name's Kavinsky."

"Ronan," Ronan said.

"That Scottish or something?"

"Irish." Ronan popped the cap on his bottle and took a swallow. He glanced around the house. It was one of the many houses just off campus students liked to rent in pairs or triples. Cheap, poorly ventilated, riddled with electrical and bug problems. Ronan lived in one very much like it with a roommate he actively avoided.

This one smelled of pot and spilled beer. The trash in the kitchenette was overflowing and the refrigerator door hung partially open. A Post-It note stuck next to the sink said Wash Your Dishes, Dickheads. As far as Ronan could see, though, no bugs.

“Skov,” Kavinsky said, pointing at a man wearing a sleeveless Sigma Chi shirt sitting in a beanbag chair. Skov raised a hand in greeting. “Jiang, Proko- watch out, he might try to shove a hand down your pants, kidding, kidding, Jesus, man, you should see your face. And somewhere around here is Swan, our resident ice queen." A black man with a face that would put Tyson Beckford to shame walked out of an adjoining room. A bottle of Ketel One was clasped in his left hand. "Ah, there he is! Give us a smile, princess.” Kavinsky grinned. Swan sneered at him. “See? Complete ice bitch.”

"I feel like I know you from somewhere," Kavinsky said.

"Landscaping," the Asian guy said. Ronan had already forgotten his name.

Kavinsky snapped his fingers. "That's it. You’re out in the sun all day, working on your tan, arentcha? Personally, I could not do that shit. I’d burn right up." He laughed and the others laughed with him. Ronan didn’t get it. He took another swallow of his beer, some craft shit he’d never drink on his own but wouldn’t refuse if it was free. “Alright, this is boring. Proko go get the Roman Candles.”

 

* * *

 

Skov took a liking to Ronan instantly. This was very unusual for the simple fact that people did not like Ronan. Mostly, they tolerated him. Some went so far as to hate him. Like was a thing of the past, from when Ronan was a semi-functional member of society and not a hollow void in human form.

Swan, on the other hand, turned up his nose at Ronan when he asked where the bathroom was and left the room.

Ronan lifted an eyebrow. Normally people hated him because he gave them reason to, not just for the simple act of being.

"Don't be too offended,” Skov said, seeing Ronan’s expression. “Swan hates everybody." Ronan could have guessed that. Swan had had no interest in lighting fireworks or in beer pong or Call of Duty or in fact anything they had done all night and into the early morning. He had sat or stood no less than two feet away from everyone all evening, doing nothing more than drinking steadily and watching.

"He doesn't hate me," Prokopenko piped up, sounding bizarrely offended.

“Okay,” Skov said, rolling his eyes, “Swan doesn't hate Proko. That's a really high bar there, man: everyone likes you.”

Ronan did not, in fact, like Proko.

Ronan valued thinks like honesty and fidelity and independence. Prokopenko had none of those qualities nor was he pleasant to look at or listen to. He was annoying, aggravating, and unpleasant. After knowing him for all of five hours, Ronan had decided he would much rather the guy didn't exist.

“Hey,” Skov said, changing the subject. “What kind of music do you listen to?”

 

* * *

 

Ronan greeted the next morning with a pounding headache and a deep desire to curl up in his bed and avoid all work. Only the knowledge that curling up in bed did not mean he would get any sleep had him up and getting dressed.

Cypress Point College was a small, private university of the sort found throughout Virginia. Situated in the hills of western Virginia, just southeast of Shenandoah National Park, it was famous for nothing so much as its relative obscurity.

That suited Ronan just fine. The college was an hour’s drive from Henrietta, which let him visit Opal as he pleased (when he pleased, if he pleased) and barely more to Singer’s Falls. Should Ronan ever have the inclination, he could simply get in his car and go home.

This was not an inclination Ronan was prone to having, not least because he had no real home to go back to.

Cypress Point had been happy to offer him a job with its grounds maintenance crew. No one asked too many questions or pretended like they were any better than him. It was calm, steady, outdoor work. Since Ronan didn’t have to care about balancing any checkbooks, he never noticed how much was deposited into his account or when. He didn’t care about overtime or picking up extra shifts. He came, he worked, he left.

Gansey choosing Cypress Point for grad school had been a nasty surprise. After the first few weeks, when Ronan made it clear no amount of talk would undo years of damage, Gansey had retreated to his corner of campus and Ronan his. Since then, Ronan had all but pretended Gansey didn’t exist.

It was as Ronan was bagging leaves that he heard someone call his name. Raising a hand to block the sun, he squinted across the nearly deserted quad. A lone figure in board shorts and a sleeveless, lime green shirt stood on the other side.

"Lynch!" the guy said, breath unaffected by the jog over. "You work here?"

Ronan spread his arms, as if to say _obviously_.

"Right on," Skov said. He looked at Ronan’s work team, at the bags, at the leaves. Unlike most, he didn't have anything stupid comments to give about landscaping or the people who did it. "Hey, you joining us tonight?"

Mike looked up, confused by this quintessential frat member talking to Ronan.

It was a question worth asking: would Ronan be joining them tonight? He had work in the morning. His head still ached from last night, the pain only compounded by the glaring sun. So he’d take a few aspirin. Last night had been- Ronan had felt _real_ last night. He had been there, every single second.

"Absolutely."

 

* * *

 

Alcohol was supposed to numb the pain. It was supposed to make you stop thinking about things you'd rather forget. Ronan was two beers in and all he could do was remember.

"Dude," Noah said.

"What?"

"Hand cream."

Ronan pretended he had no idea what Noah was talking about.

" _Hand_ cream."

Noah's words were a complete mystery. In fact, Ronan wasn't even sure they were speaking the same language. Ronan was speaking English and Noah was speaking- where the fuck was Noah's family even from?- Noahese.

"Hey, hey, Ronan. You know what you don't give girls?"

"Other than your sisters, nothing they don't give right back," Ronan deadpanned. He grinned as Noah pulled a face.

"Rude. Chapstick. You don't give girls  _chapstick_. You know why? Because girls take that and they say, oh, Ronan, clearly my lips are not soft enough for you to kiss. And then they throw the chapstick at you. It's very sad."

"I didn't give a girl chapstick."

"No, you just gave Adam Parrish  _hand cream_."

"His hands were chapped." Ronan was determined to defend himself. Otherwise, if he took a moment to reassess the last 24 hours, he might just lie down in the gravel out front and ask Noah to back over him with his Mustang.

"Yeah, too chapped for you to  _hold_."

Applying his hand to Noah's face, Ronan shoved Noah to the floor. Noah's reaction? Pure, ear-shattering laughter.

Ronan swam back to the present. It was always Noah he remembered strongest. Memories with him in them were clearer, less murky than the others. Ask Ronan what he remembered of Gansey from the same time period and all he could say was that he remembered a strange superstition he had, a belief, beyond certain, that Gansey would die. Childish stupidity. Gansey hadn't died, had instead stolen Ronan's heart and his crush besides.

It had been a strange time, that senior year.

Now only Ronan talked to Blue and only Gansey talked to Adam and nobody, as far as Ronan knew, talked to Henry Cheng. The five of them were only a group for less than a year. Gansey and Adam had gone on to bigger and better things. Blue was trying to. Ronan wasn't.

He didn't particularly care what Henry was up to.

Henry had never fit in their group quite right. Ronan refused to admit he and Adam wouldn't let the guy in. Henry was very clear in the fact that he wanted Gansey and Blue could tag along but Ronan, who had known Gansey first, was unwanted. And look where that had gotten him.

Adam Parrish was one hell of a drug.

“Hey.” Ronan focused his eyes on the person in front of him. “Hey, Lynch, you okay? You didn’t take anything, did you?”

“I’m fine,” Ronan told Skov. _Nothing but memories_ , he added silently.

“Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

They were sitting on the porch. Autumn was setting in, stealing the last of summer away. The air was chilly this late at night, more so than your average mountain morning.

"Is that your car?" Skov asked, looking in the direction of the BMW. He whistled. Ronan felt a deep pleasure at the sound. Skov drove a tricked out RX-7. Flashy, it had nothing on the BMW. "You ever use it for anything? Racing, maybe?"

“What type of car is that?” Prokopenko asked. He hadn’t been lying about Swan liking him. The two were sitting bare inches apart on the railing. It was the closest Ronan had seen to actual human affection from Swan.

“BMW.”

“Yeah, but what model?”

Ronan scowled. Truth was, Ronan liked cars but he did not know much about cars. He knew enough to get by, could tell you the specs on a couple models he liked but other than that?

“Fuck off,” he told Prokopenko.

Kavinsky’s laughter was vicious.

“Race me, Lynch,” he said. “You in your BMW, me in my Evo. Come on.”

Ronan didn’t even think before he told Kavinsky, “You won’t win.”

Kavinsky flashed him a cold smile, as cruel as it was full of mirth. The porchlights were a devil’s eyes in his sunglasses. “I always win.”

 

* * *

 

Ronan skipped work the following morning. It wasn't the hangover. That he could deal with. It was the pointlessness of it all. Work. Prettying up a campus for an institution he couldn't care less about.

He didn't need the money. The crew wouldn't care if he missed a day.

Last night he raced Kavinsky. The Mitsubishi should have won. It was the better car, faster. But Kavinsky buggered the shift from third to fourth. Ronan did not. He blew by, seemingly faster than should have been possible, and had smiled at the shock on Kavinsky’s face. Ronan did not have words for the emotion that suffused him, joy, delight, euphoria, none of it was strong enough, not when he had been deprived of the barest drop for so long.

He couldn’t got to work. He couldn’t even call his boss to tell him he wouldn’t be there. Why should he? It didn’t matter. Compared to Kavinsky and his Mitsubishi, nothing felt _real_.

 

* * *

 

 

It quickly became a pattern. Join Kavinsky and his friends at night. Drink, race, repeat. Ronan could care less about the girls, the boys, the fireworks. All he needed were the cars and Kavinsky.

His boss left angry voicemails threatening to fire him if he missed another day. Ronan deleted them. Why should he care? He had no real responsibilities and his pockets were deep. He didn’t need the job. He didn’t even need the routine. Who cared if he showed up? Someone else could clean up after the CPC students. Ronan was having the time of his life.

It started like this: two cars lined up on a deserted road, floodlights turning the night brighter than day. A volunteer, usually a sorority sister but not always, stood between the two cars as they revved their engines. It must be hotter than hell but the volunteer never minded. She held a flag aloft and, with a suddenness that shocked the crowd every time, let her arm drop.

With a flood of gas to the engines, the cars were off.

Nothing compared to the feeling of hundreds of horsepower under your legs. The gnashing of the pistons, the squeal of the tires. The feel of the gearshift in the palm of your hand. A smile that spoke only of danger gracing your lips as you won again and again and again.

This was Ronan at his best. This was him  _alive_.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're turning me into a homewrecker," Swan said.

Proko nuzzled Swan's neck. "K doesn't mind."

"No fangs," Swan reminded him. Proko made a disappointed sound. Swan shivered, not from fear but from cold. The effects of Proko's last feeding had almost completely worn off and he was freezing.

Still, he was Proko. Swan had been gone for him since very nearly the day they met, this tawdry, unbeautiful whore's son. That last bit they had in common. That wasn't why Swan wanted him. Honestly, he didn't know why he wanted him.

Swan twisted his fingers in Proko's hair and tugged experimentally. Proko whimpered softly. He did not resist when Swan yanked harder and brought his head up to slot their mouths together.

"Alright," Swan said. "That is enough for today. Go take a shower."

Proko whined.

"Go," Swan told him, leaning in for a second kiss. "I will be there in a minute."

Proko slithers out of bed, only stopping to pick a towel off the floor. Swan was not sure spreading your legs and bending from the waist was the most natural way to do it. Proko threw a look over his shoulder to see if Swan was watching. Swan was. He most certainly was.

Swan sat up, sheets pooling in his lap, and lit a cigarette.

What a beautiful mess this was.

But it was a beautiful mess to contemplate another day. Swan had things to do, which included taking a shower, going to class, and making sure his boy was slathered with enough sunscreen to get _his_ ass to class, which was seriously turning into a problem for Proko. Although Swan presumed immortality precluded the need for college degrees, he would like Proko to see the sun every once in a while.

Swan stubbed his cigarette out. The water was already running hot when he stepped into the shower. Proko looked over his shoulder and smiled, soap clasped in his hands; an invitation Swan kissed his shoulder. He set to cleaning Proko's hair, which he tended to neglect. Swan worked shampoo and conditioner into short strands before running a washcloth over Proko's back. He trailed it down the back of his legs before moving back up to clean between them. Proko shuddered, curling in on himself. The spray hit them both and Swan could not help but press an open-mouthed kiss to his curved, water-warmed back.

It was in moments like this that Swan forgot Proko was not his.

There was a bite mark, deep and unforgiving, not two inches from Swan's lips. For an instant, Swan stared at it, uncomprehending.

Then he dropped the washcloth and stepped away, disgusted with himself and his weaknesses. He did not bother with an explanation, just went, heedless to any protest Proko might give.

He got dressed, ignoring Proko, who had stepped out of the shower as well. He feared, if he looked at him, Proko's face, lost and lacking in understanding, would drag him back in. Keeping his eyes averted, Swan grabbed his bag. He threw one strap over his shoulder and headed out.

His breath misted in the autumn air as he thought, _I was supposed to be better than this_.

 

"Swan, my man," Kavinsky crowed.

Swan glared and kept walking.

Kavinsky followed, jogging to keep up. "Come on, Swan. Don't be like that."

Swan cut his eyes to the annoyance. "I have class, K."

"You smell like Proko." Kavinsky grinned, wide and lewd.

Swan abhorred him. From his ugly shades to his fiendish smile to the scent of sunscreen and blood rolling off him in waves, Joseph Kavinsky aroused nothing but blind fury in him.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Kavinsky paused. He took his shades off and pretended to clean them with his shirt. "Nothing. Unless you want me to do something about it." There was a streak of red in his brown eyes. It inspired no fear in Swan.

The silence was tense. One day, something would have to give. It would not be today.

"I have class," Swan repeated. Swan did not give a shit about being late to class but he needed to get away from Kavinsky. He had already let his self-control slip enough this morning.

When he had gotten halfway down the sidewalk, Kavinsky's hated voice rang out. "Just remember," he called, a laugh at the end of his words, "wherever you've been, I've been first!"

Swan clenched his fists and kept walking.

 

* * *

 

A wave crashing into him. That was the feeling of seeing Proko again after two years apart. A wave overwhelming Swan and sending him into the surf, sand and saltwater scraping him raw outside and in. Proko was the air after, something to cling to, life itself.

Kavinsky was the sea.

Swan's interests in life were, in order, Proko, high quality alcohol, cars, and racing. The list was heavily skewed, with perhaps 75% of Swan's interests being taken up by Proko and all things concerning him.

It was, people would be quick to point out if Swan were to let them know, unhealthy to be so preoccupied. Swan had no interest in letting people know.

Instead, he took Proko to bed and he looked after him and he railed against Joseph fucking Kavinsky for stealing his friend from him.

A month ago, Proko had been human.

A month ago, they had not been sleeping together.

Neither of those things could be undone.

If Swan had been smarter, he would have forced Proko to leave. He would have told Proko he did not need K, that Swan could be as good for him, better than K was.

He should have done something, said something. He should have stolen a kiss before he was drunk from Ketel One and grief and Proko was a cold, dead thing in his arms.

But Swan had never been good at expressing his emotions and Proko had always been overly affectionate. The lines were not clear. Swan did not want to blur them further. He did nothing. And Proko became this. And Swan lost his way.

 

* * *

 

“He overdid it,” Skov said when Swan entered the room. The _again_ went unspoken, although Skov did not seem to be in a much better state.

Swan huffed in amusement.

Proko sank gingerly into the couch cushions. He popped the button of his shorts and groaned when his blood-swollen stomach pushed free of its confines. The flaps of his unbuttoned shorts framed his clearly sore belly. Swan did not typically use words like cute but, if he were to, this would be an appropriate time.

He settled next to Proko on the couch, slinging one arm along the back and placing the hand of the other on Proko's belly. It was warm, the warm of life and living, the warmth of humankind. Proko turned to look at him. The red had faded from his eyes, his bloodlust slaked, returning them to a soft, slightly inebriated brown. Like this, he seemed almost human.

Like this, he almost seemed like the boy Swan once knew.

Proko whined softly. Swan smiled. This, too, qualified as cute. He massaged Proko's stomach. The blood would digest soon enough and it would be flat again. For now, it was taut under Swan's fingers with little give.

Proko hiccuped and a bit of blood spattered his lips. His pink tongue darted out to swipe it up.

Sighing, Proko shuffled closer, laying his head on Swan's shoulder. Swan kissed his temple, then his cheekbone, then his mouth. Proko opened for him, soft and pliant. He tasted like blood but that was hardly unpleasant.

His fangs nipped at Swan's bottom lip. Swan pulled back, hand still on Proko's stomach.

“Do you really think you can drink more?”

“I can try. Come on, 'leek, you taste so much better than deer.”

Swan curled his lip. “You drank deer blood?”

“And rabbit,” Skov said. He had his head tilted back, eyes closed. “No raccoon tonight. Or possum,” he added in a disgustingly wistful tone.

“Gross,” Proko said. He nuzzled Swan's neck.

“Wrist or nothing.”

Proko pouted but he took Swan's wrist. He nicked the vein lightly, giving Swan a look that was less baleful than sulky kitten as he clamped down. Swan waited three and a half beats before tugging on the back of Proko's shirt. He'd give Proko all he had and more but Proko was going to hurt himself if he continued.

Sure enough, not ten seconds after licking Swan's wrist clean and sealing the bite wounds, Proko was clutching at his stomach, groaning.

“What did I tell you?” Swan asked. Proko gave him a pitiful look.

Skov laughed.

 

* * *

 

“Don't stop on my account,” Kavinsky said, grin wide as he squeezed an impressive hardon through his shorts.

Furious, Swan lunged at him. He was held back by Proko and the hand on his chest.

“Swan, please.”

Swan's mood soured. Of course. Proko would drop everything for K.

“I want this,” Proko added softly.

Swan frowned.

“Please,” Proko said again.

Swan didn't know what he was asking. But he was hard and Proko was very tempting right now, even with Kavinsky on the other side of the room.

Proko pressed their lips together. Swan took the kiss gladly, eyes focused over Proko's shoulder on K.

K smirked. He'd gone back to palming himself. It was crude. For some reason, it made Swan burn hotter and not just with anger.

As with so many things, there was no explanation. When it came to Proko, Swan just lost it, everything. Proko was Eastern European trash, none too bright, with crooked shoulders and prominent ears, and Swan wanted to give him everything he asked for and more. When it came to Kavinsky, Swan had only one desire: murder.

The truce would stay for today.

Because Proko asked.

"Keep him still," Kavinsky ordered, but he wasn't talking to Swan. Proko gripped Swan’s shoulders. Kavinsky grinned, wicked and slow.

 _Proko_ , Swan thought. He was doing this for Proko.

Holding the knife, Kavinsky sliced a shallow cut. With a flick of his wrist, he turned that shallow cut into a flay. He tossed the triangle of skin to the floor. The flash of pain and the speed made it unreal. Swan could only gape at the absolute shock of dermis against his midnight skin, the blood welling against the pink.

Proko stared transfixed.

"Go ahead," Kavinsky said and Swan was too gone to even bristle. "You know you want it."

Proko leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the absence of flesh. With his cold tongue, he lapped at the blood welling there. It should have been repulsive. It should have been horrifying.

Swan had never felt more complete.

Blood dripping from his lips, Proko lifted his head. Swan expected him to wipe it away. He did not. Instead Proko leaned forward and pressed his lips to Swan's own.

There were no words to describe the sound Swan made, nor the speed with which he slid his hand around the back of his boy's neck and brought him closer.

His blood was metallic, warm against Proko's cool lips. Proko plunged ahead, his hazy eagerness the closest he would ever get to dominant. The feel of his fangs against Swan's tongue sent a shiver through him, brought on by a hot mix of revulsion and desire.

It was only when he moved to mark Swan's neck that Swan remembered Kavinsky was there.

His eyes flashed open but then Proko's rough, cold hands were cradling his face. "He's not going to bite you," Proko said. "K promised."

Kavinsky snorted, which showed what he thought of "promises". Still, the fangs on Swan's neck receded.

 

* * *

 

 

Do not ask Swan when it started or why. One day, Proko was just a friend and the next Swan could not live without him. Not in the clichéd way, where he did not want to be apart from him, but the all-encompassing, narrow way where life without Danylo Prokopenko was not worth living.

Swan had problems. He knew that. But it was easy enough to push those problems to the side in favor of spending time with Proko, of making sure he was safe and happy and well-fed, as much as Proko was willing to be. It was easy enough to make Proko the meaning in his life, the reason he was here and not in a coffin. It was easy enough to avoid treatment and help when he got by like this.

And that was all before Proko got turned.

Now it was a battle to keep Proko from becoming a different person altogether. It was a war for the boy Swan fell in love with fought against the monster he became and the person who made him that way.

It was a campaign Swan was losing.

Because this new Prokopenko thought nothing of accepting Swan’s affections, nothing of taking him to bed, nothing of submitting to him like a sex kitten straight from Swan’s dreams. It was Kavinsky’s doing, all of it, and there was no turning back. Swan was disgusted that he thought nothing of joining Proko, of kissing him, of fucking him deep and hard while Proko moaned his encouragement.

He lost the friend he once had and gained the lover he always wanted. It should not have been this way. Proko would not have wanted it this way.

Swan was too weak to refuse.

 

* * *

 

 

“You're going to help me fuck him,” K said.

Swan's eyes flashed. The shock was wearing off now as the blood trickled down his chest. "Proko, go."

"Stay," Kavinsky countered.

Proko looked between them, his forehead wrinkling in confusion, Swan's blood on his chin. Kavinsky's words won out.

Proko bit his lip. “Please, 'leek,” he said.

That was all it took.

Kavinsky twisted his fingers in Proko's short hair and yanked, earning him a groan and a bared throat he moved to bite.

"It doesn't taste the same," K told Swan, though Swan hadn't asked. "It's a little like distilled water. Not bad but lacking that punch."

Kavinsky did not lick the bite clean. Blood trailed from the puncture wounds, two rivulets of red Swan couldn't tear his eyes away from.

Proko looked at him through half-closed eyes, his lashes a dusky sweep against his pallid skin.

Swan had never wanted anything more.

Kavinsky squeezed the base of Proko's dick. “Not yet, babe.” He ran a hand up the inside of Proko's trembling thighs, which did nothing to improve Proko's already terrible self-control. "We're going to have some fun first."

Proko whined.

Kavinsky turned to Swan. “I was thinking about getting him a cock ring. Then I remembered how nice it is to watch him struggle.”

Proko bit down on his lip to muffle his cries.

“Aw, don't be like that, babe. You know how much I like to hear you." Kavinsky's eyes flicked to their companion. "So, I'm sure, does Swan.”

He was right. Proko was a temptation and a half like this. How delicious his moans and begging were, how scorching hot his near ruin was. He had skin made to be marked, a mouth made to be brutalized.

Kavinsky delivered a ringing slap to Proko's ass. "Move, princess. We've gotta make Swan _comfortable_." The last word ended on a sneer.

Swan did not ask comfortable for what. Proko smiled at him, a soft, sweet thing that meant he had plans.

"What's going to happen," Kavinsky said, "is I'm gonna get inside Proko here and you are, too."

Swan's first thought was he did not want any part of his genitalia touching Kavinsky's. His second was that that suggestion was the hottest thing he had heard all night.

"Sound good?"

Proko was worrying his lip. His eyes pleaded with Swan to say yes.

"Fine," Swan told Kavinsky.

It was less awful than it sounded. Kavinsky made fast work of slicking and stretching Proko while Swan slid on a condom and watched. They worked well together, moving with a familiarity and ease Swan could not match. Tonight, it grated less than it normally did.

Swan sat back against the headboard, letting Proko sink down on his cock. Proko's back was to his chest. Swan took comfort in knowing he would be supporting Proko through all of this.

It took more effort for Kavinsky to slide inside. Proko winced, making soft, whimpering sounds against Swan's neck as his hole was stretched farther than it had ever been.

"Easy now," Kavinsky said, one hand on Proko's shoulder, the other on his hip. "You got this."

Proko's response was a pained sound.

Kavinsky kept sliding in. Swan grit his teeth, then forced himself to relax. Proko was tense enough for the both of them.

Then Kavinsky was in.

Swan laid a kiss to Proko's shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“You good, baby boy?” Kavinsky demanded before Proko could answer. Swan glared at him. Kavinsky's lazy grin only spread. He rolled his hips. Swan grit his teeth.

He forced himself to relax. He was doing this for Proko. Now wasn't the time to get into an argument with K.

Proko nodded, his head tilted back mouth open. “It's a lot,” he gasped.

“We'll take it slow,” Kavinsky said.

“Just tell me if you need to stop,” Swan added quietly. “I'm right here.”

The sound Proko made was pure intoxication. Swan sucked in a breath. Considering the way Kavinsy's hips bucked, he enjoyed it, too.

Kavinsky laughed. “Hold on, babe. Don't want you blowing your load just yet.”

He was always so crass. No finesse at all. Swan wrapped a loose hand around Proko's cock, gave the base a few short squeezes. He did not want to take him too far. Just enough to keep Proko focused for the moment.

Swan bit lightly at the shell of Proko’s ear.

They were going to ruin their boy tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

“Don't,” K said when Proko reached to touch himself. “You don't touch yourself unless I say so.” Proko whined but obeyed.

He was getting close to delirious now, mind too swamped with pleasure to think. He was so full, so stretched. It hurt so bad he wanted it over; it hurt so good he never wanted it to stop. Swan was thrusting shallowly, mostly letting Proko bounce on his cock while K took deep strokes. Proko bit his lip. Could he come like this? Untouched, no sensation but Swan and K inside him? Fuck.

God, this was perfect. This was where he wanted to be forever.

He gasped as Swan's hand moved to stroke his balls, the touch so light Proko felt the heat coming off of his skin more than his actual touch. Proko moaned, gasped, sighed, loud and uninhibited. This was- it was too much, really. It was sensation after sensation, the two men he cared about not arguing for once, combined in their desire to fuck him.

K licked a line up the blood dripping onto Proko's shoulder and rolling down his chest. His tongue left a bloody streak. He kissed him. Proko moaned at the boozy taste of Swan's blood on K's lips.

Fuck, he could almost see his stomach bulging from their combined dicks. Proko pressed a hand against it and, yep, he could definitely feel K move. Proko’s eyelids fluttered. He was just a toy for their benefit, just a hole to fuck and fill.

And then it was over.

Swan tensed and came inside him, K thrusting a few more times before he followed. He pulled out immediately afterwards and wiped his dick on the sheets. Swan was slower, kissing down Proko's neck and stroking his side as he slid out.

Proko wrapped a hand around himself, coming after a few short jerks. Then he collapsed on the bed, feeling empty, ass spasming around nothing, and let Swan cuddle him and murmur soft praises, telling him how good he’d looked, how good he'd been for them.

Too soon, Proko's headspace broke and he shook, curled into Swan's chest. It was too much, the emotions coming too fast. Swan soothed him with soft reassurances ( _shh, shh, it's okay, you were good, you were so good for us_ , even though Proko knew Swan didn't like Kavinsky, never had) and hands on his back. It helped. Proko loved him so much, him and K both, and he told Swan this in broken words and Swan said something Proko pretended meant _we love you, too_.

K didn't come back and Proko drifted to sleep soon after.


	6. Chapter 6

“How is she?” Blue's benefactor, her former friend, her current something asked.

“Orla?” Blue replied, just to be a shit. “She's great. Business is booming, she's got her own webpage. Her clients think it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Are you drunk?” Blue asked, changing the subject. She glanced at the clock. 11:25 am.

“Hungover,” Ronan grumbled. “How's-“ He couldn't even say her name.

“She's fine. She's starting kindergarten next week. We've told her she has to wear shoes all the time. She's not too happy about that.”

“Is she ready?”

“Yeah. We already went shopping.” Blue didn't add that Opal's shopping list cost twice that of two of her second cousins'. But then, Opal got everything on her list and Blue had helped modify some old duds so her cousins' clothes, if not new, would at least stand out. "Look, Ronan, I gotta go. I have an assignment that needs to be turned in by midnight I haven't started on yet. I'll send you some pictures when I can.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Blue worried her lip. Ronan was obviously not in a good place. “Now's not a great time. How about tomorrow? And Ronan? Be sober the next time you call.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ronan clenched the phone in his hand.

He didn't need to be sober to speak to Opal. She’d seen him at his worst. She’d  _been_ with him at his worst.

If he was being honest, Ronan knew he'd fucked up. Not only today but every day, going all the way back to the day he brought Opal to 300 Fox Way and asked Blue to take her in.

“Don’t worry about it,” Blue had said. “She’ll be fine here. Most of us grew up without fathers.”

Opal had looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. She had been here before and yet she was scared.

“It’s just for a little while,” he told her. “I’ll be back soon.”

That was six months ago. He hadn’t been back since.

She was better off there. Ronan was no father. He was never meant to be one. He would check up on her, text Blue to see if she was okay, write Opal long letters for the women of Fox Way to read to her…but he couldn’t go back. Not to Henrietta. There were too many bad memories there.

Ronan put the phone down and started getting ready for work. He'd call back later. Blue couldn't possibly refuse him then.

"She will," Noah said. Ronan paused, then continued sticking his leg through his work pants. "She doesn't think you're a good influence."

"I have the right to talk to my daughter."

"But should you?"

Ronan turned to glare at Noah. He was already gone.

"If you're going to say shit like that, at least stick around for the aftermath!" Ronan yelled to the empty air.

"I'm always around," he wanted Noah to answer but Noah said nothing.

The dead weren't known for their reliability.

 

* * *

 

Ronan had fallen for Noah as he was falling for Adam and maybe he was in love with Gansey at the same time, maybe he was in love with them all at once. Did it matter? Noah was gone, Cabeswater was gone, Aurora, his mother was gone. Henrietta should have been razed in the aftermath. It endured. Declan vanished and he took a seething Matthew with him. The only good point was Opal.

And now he was losing her.

He hadn't meant to have her but he didn't regret having her. He would never let her think she was a mistake. An accident, certainly, but no mistake.

He just- it would have been so easy if he had been straight. If he had wanted Opal's mother, if he desired her even the slightest bit.

But he hadn't and she had signed Opal over to him and he wouldn't abandon his daughter for anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Don't ask Ronan why Noah haunted him.

(Not that Noah was really haunting him. He was just a hallucination. Just a hallucination. Definitely not real.)

It must have been grief that started it, too many people lost in too short a time. Something had to give.

It just so happened to be Ronan's mind.

Now he saw Noah all the time.

He came in Ronan's worst moments, when alcohol or self-hatred had seeped too far into his brain and demanded an out.

 

* * *

 

Did Adam break him? There are people out there who would revel in that sort of thing, knowing they caused someone's downward spiral.

No. It wasn't Adam.

Rather, it wasn't  _just_ Adam. Whelk hadn't been good news. Ronan can see now that Noah was half in love with him, can admit now that that was what was going on, and in hindsight he can now why Noah never listened to him. Not that Ronan's advice was good.  _Your roommate's messing around with your girlfriend_ , he'd said and Noah laughed, said he knew. Said he didn't mind.

“He's creepy,” Ronan said.

“You have a pet raven,” Noah said.

 _I'm worried_ , Ronan thought. “You let him walk all over you,” he said.

“He's a lot like you,” Noah said.

“We're nothing alike,” Ronan replied. “He's a liar.”

“If you say so.” Noah sat up. “This is boring. Wanna race?”

Ronan always wanted to race.

 

* * *

 

 

Ronan wished he had normal dreams. Even the nightmares sounded better than his own- teeth falling out, drowning, monsters pursuing you. If they stayed in your head, how much harm can they be?

Maybe it  _was_ a dream.

Maybe Ronan never razed his home to the ground. Maybe he never burned a forest in anger and grief and all the other shitty emotions he didn't want to name. Maybe he never got swept into another world.

Maybe Noah never died, just moved away and forgot all about Ronan. Yeah, that would be a nice dream.

Noah. Fuck, Ronan missed him.

("I'm still here," a ghostly voice whispered. Ronan ignored it.)

Noah had been something else. Hyper, full of life, brimming with action, he had told Ronan at night, as they laid out on the hood of Ronan's car, how much he liked Barrington, how even if he was stuffy and a prat, he had this energy.

Too many times, Ronan had made fun of Whelk. His awful name, his too big features, his pretentiousness. Noah had always said, he's a bit like Gansey then, isn't he? And Ronan didn't know how to respond.

Because it was true, Whelk and Gansey had a lot in common. Only Whelk was an asshole and Gansey was...Gansey. Both weird in their own ways, both obsessed with the magical, the impossible, history and Latin and Welsh. They were something else.

Noah liked his Whelk and Ronan liked his Gansey and the four of them had never gotten together and they never would. Whelk and Gansey belonged to the daytime, to Aglionby, to family commitments. Noah and Ronan were streetlights bleeding into the night, fast cars, and idiotic adventures.

Ronan never liked Barrington Whelk. That's the truth. But he never thought Whelk was going to do what he did, which is sleep with Noah's girlfriend, then take him out to the woods, to the very edge of Ronan's special place, and leave him bleeding and broken and dead.

 

* * *

 

 

“You shouldn't drink and drive,” Noah said. Sitting in the passenger seat, seatbelt buckled over his incorporeal form, he was the picture of safety.

Ronan didn't even pause before revving the engine again. The driver in the '67 Camaro smirked at him. Ronan lifted a middle finger back. “Like you've never done it.”

One of the most hilarious- read horrifying- things about this new Noah was how hypocritical he was. He was obsessed with Ronan's safety.

This was how Ronan knew he wasn't real. He was just some figment of Ronan's tortured imagination, his own personal Jiminy Cricket. The real Noah never cared about any of those things.

“I don't like this,” Noah said, fingers gripping his knees tightly.

“No one asked you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Niall Lynch was a man of secrets. He lived in a quiet home in the country along with his wife and three sons. Every few months, he'd leave and every few months he'd return, bringing untold wonders with him.

Where did he go? That was a question Ronan never bothered to ask, not until Declan was asked to go along, too.

The eldest Lynch son had much of his father in him, if you coated him in shellac and filed away the rough edges. Liars, the both of them.

When Ronan was fifteen, he found his father's body. The newspapers said it was an animal attack, a brown bear come out the woods. They neglected to mention that his throat had been torn out and a bloody sigil painted on the pavement beside him.

 _What does it mean?_  Ronan asked his brother but Declan had no answer.

So Ronan stole his father's car and the Lynch brothers separated, never to be the same again.

 

* * *

 

“You're going to have to get over it, Ronan,” Declan had said. “You think people don't die every day?”

Ronan hadn't felt like staying around much more after that.

 

* * *

 

 

"You'll regret it," Noah warned.

Ronan was too drunk to care. There was a phone attached to the answering machine. It was functional, for all Ronan never used it. Except, it would seem, in rare cases such as this.

He tried to think of something to say as the phone rang. He was leaning towards  _why didn't you choose me?_  when the other end picked up.

“I don't have time for this,” Adam said. “Lose my number, Ronan, seriously.”

He hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

Ronan arrived at the house Kavinsky rented or owned. The party was already well under way. Music and people spilled out the front door. There was laughter and yelling, the sound of glass breaking. Someone was on the roof with a sparkler. At least one half-naked girl was passed put on the lawn, empty solo cups and assorted trash strewn about her.

Ronan curled his lips. He wasn’t one for parties. It was Kavinsky who drew him, not the party.

Still, he wouldn’t say no to a beer and fireworks were always amusing.

Jiang and Prokopenko were in the living room, grinding up against each other and laughing, both two sheets to the wind. Skov was talking to a sorority girl, one arm planted on the wall above her head, an easy smirk playing on his lips.

Ronan was utterly consumed with the knowledge that he hated them. This, here, a party, it wasn't his scene. The only world where he and Kavinsky's dogs should coexist was the streets.

Skov broke away from his companion and swaggered over to Ronan. “You're looking bored, Lynch. Wanna race?”

Ronan considered it. His eye caught on the kid stumbling across Kavinsky’s roof. From the backyard came a whistle and boom, a firework barely clearing the house. Laughter.

“You enjoying the show?” Prokopenko interrupted. He was repulsive as ever, only today his clothes were tight, his shorts were miniscule. The sight of all that bare skin made Ronan's crawl. “K makes them himself.”

“Kavinsky makes the fireworks?”

“Mmm,” Proko said. His hand grasped the neck of Ronan's bottle and he stole it away, waggling it at Ronan. “Come on. I'll show you.”

Ronan followed him through the first floor of the house. It seemed larger at night, the shadows giving a sense of infinite possibilities and room. Someone had written  _Alpha Sigma Omega Liiiiife!!!_  on one of the walls, a nod to the fraternity that ostensibly owned this house.

Ronan had been a little confused when he had heard that. Skov was the fraternity head or chairperson or something of importance in the dizzyingly nonsensical hierarchy that was fraternity politics. ΑΣΩ, Skov had explained to Ronan before Ronan realized Skov's life had no substance and was not something he wanted to be a part of, meant that the fraternity brothers were the alpha and the omega to each other- the beginning and the end, the everything, the whole universe, if you would, contained in one small household.

It was possible Kavinsky was the president of this fraternity. The other members, save for his inner circle, never so much as talked back to him. Nights tended to go the way Kavinsky wanted them to.

The back of Ronan's neck prickled.

Proko had led him down a stairway into a furnished basement. The air was cold down here and faintly earthy as all good subterranean dwellings should be. The thick carpeting under Ronan's shoes had muffled their footsteps.

Proko was close, too close. Ronan could feel his every breath on his neck.

“What do you want with K?” Proko asked, voice a purr.

“I'm just here to race.”

“Yeah? I don't see any cars here tonight.”

The hairs on the back of Ronan's neck were at full mast. He could feel Proko draw closer, his breath cool and smelling faintly of something Ronan recognized but couldn't name.

“Proko,” Kavinsky said, a warning in his voice. He stood at the top of the stairs, the light from the party framing him from the back. It was only then that Ronan realized how dark the basement was.

Proko drew back, looking less than chagrined.

Ronan would not show his relief. “I was promised fireworks.”

“Oh, you'll get fireworks all right.”

Kavinsky descended the stairs. As with everything he did, there was a natural grace to it, an enviable smoothness. Like a raptor tucking in its wings to dive onto unsuspecting prey, he moved like a creature born for it.

And like a raptor, the danger was unceasing.

Ronan's heart surged. Kavinsky approached. The touch of his fingers to Ronan's neck made him want to fall to his knees.

Kavinsky's teeth scraped over Ronan's pulse point. No, not teeth,  _fangs_.

As Kavinsky's teeth sank into his neck, Ronan realized what it was he had smelled on Prokopenko's breath.

Blood.

 

* * *

 

 

Ronan groaned, clutching his head. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, and like he was due for a wicked headache.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Noah said.

Ronan ignored him and stumbled towards the bathroom.

"He  _bit_ you," Noah hissed. "And do you know what he did after?"

Actually, Ronan didn't. He can feel a dull throbbing in the side of his neck, not unlike a hickey or a bruise. If Noah was turning into a prude on him...

"He sucked your blood," Noah said. "Like a vampire."

"Vampires aren't real," Ronan retorted, wiping his face with a wet towel. He peered at the bruise. Damn, Kavinsky had really gone at it.

"Are you doubting me? I was there, Ronan. I saw it."

"Vampires aren't real," Ronan repeated, "and neither are you."

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't like this," Noah said. What he didn't like was that Ronan had come back after his supposed "vampire" attack.  _It wasn't a hickey_ , he kept telling Ronan.  _Love bites don't look like that._

The last time he had said it, Ronan snapped that Noah had never gotten so lucky in his life so he could piss right the fuck off, the jealous bastard. Noah had disappeared in a snitfit and only showed back up now.

"You're dead," Ronan replied, tipping his bottle back and swallowing the last of his beer. He dropped it to the floor and cracked open another. "You died five years ago."

"So?"

"So I don't have to listen to you."  _So you aren't really here._

A groan came from somewhere to Ronan's right. One of last night's revelers, pulling a dirty towel over their head.

"I might be," Noah said. "You don't know."

"Are you talking to yourself now?" Kavinsky asked. He was draped across the mantelpiece, still wearing the clothes he had worn last night: a tanktop that bared his shoulders and did nothing to hide the outline of his chest. Deceptively fragile and delicate, the set of his shoulders held more power than the rest of the room combined. His hollow cheeks were only matched by the glittering feverishness of his eyes. He didn't look like he had slept. Ronan wasn't sure he  _did_ sleep. "Should we be worried about your mental health, Ro-ro?"

Ronan's pulse surged within him. At the implication of Kavinsky's words or the intrusion, maybe. Certainly not at his despicable presence.

Ronan snorted. "I'm not the one doing a line off a sorority girl's tits."

"I'll have you know that was  _awesome_."

"Right. If unwashed breasts are your thing."

"Not sure I should be taking your opinion of tits into consideration, unwashed or no. Unless you're into fatties which, obviously," Kavinsky swept an arm down the front of his body in a confusing gesture, "no."

Ronan frowned at him.

"Whatever. You got a light?"

"I don't smoke."

"Oh, well." Kavinsky kicked at a lump on the floor. "Jiang, you got a light?"

What Jiang had was a middle finger. Kavinsky crouched down next to him and began fumbling through Jiang's pockets.

"Ah ha!" he said, producing a shiny, silver rectangle.

"I want that back," Jiang called as Kavinsky headed for the door.

"Finder's keepers!"

"I paid for that, dickweed!" Jiang poked his head out from his towel long enough to scowl at the door before diving back under. "Asshole," he grumbled.

"You can go back to talking to your friend. I'm not listening," he said a minute later, when things had gone quiet.

Ronan, in what was truly a test of endurance and not at all a testament to how drunk he still was, chose to ignore him.

 

* * *

 

 

While the others still slept, Skov busied himself cleaning the house. It was an unfortunate fact that parties left messes and an even more unfortunate fact that a longtime member (Kavinsky) had recently pissed off the cleaning ladies so badly they refused to come back. So now Skov got to clean the house all by his lonesome because, other than a handful of new ΑΣΩ recruits, no one else knew how to do it.

Which was to say, Skov had attempted to teach Prokopenko how to sweep and Proko had fumbled it so badly (it was deliberate, Skov was sure of it, no one was that  _bad_ at sweeping), Skov had banned him from doing anything more than picking up trash.

It was like the guys didn't get that pretenses were important. If CPC got wind that they weren't an actual social fraternity, were instead the first thing Skov could think of as a cover (he'd been a little busy that year, alright?), they might start asking, Blake Skovron, how does ΑΣΩ benefit Cypress Point College? If the answer turned out to be it didn't, members had a <50% chance of graduating, well, things would not be good.

God, he needed- Skov wasn't  _meant_ to do this sort of thing alone. He was experienced at organizing, holding parties, all that jazz, but he needed other people to step up and help him.

He was trying to find them now. It was just all he had had to start with were Kavinsky and Jiang, one of whom was excellent at everything but not blowing his cover and the other who wanted nothing more than a safe haven for a few years. They had been what was available. Skov worried, more often than not, that choosing them would be his ruin.

Or maybe it would be himself.

Skov went here before. It was idiotic to come back. With his house dead and hunters still on his trail, he should have left Virginia, gone off the map, found someplace to hide out for a decade or ten. Time was something he could afford to waste.

But it was here he met Tad and DJ and DaCosta. Back in ’92, when he was a freshman for the fourth time, this was the place to be.

It hadn’t changed much. Only now he saw ghosts in every hall and he wasn't taking the drugs just for appearances. Kavinsky was great but they didn’t click, not the way Skov and his brothers once did. Skov had to adapt, had to trade one form of camaraderie in for the other, had to tamp down on the human and bring out the vamp.

It was a different sort of fun.

Skov was absolutely, completely certain that it was all going to end very, very soon.

 

* * *

 

 

"Where the fuck've you been lately?" Skov flung the question at Jiang right as he walked through the front door.

Jiang shrugged, glancing furtively about for Lynch. Thankfully, he wasn't there. "Around."

He settled next to Proko on the couch. On the television screen, Corey Haim asked, "Are you freebasing, Michael? Inquiring minds want to know."

“You know him,” Proko said softly. If it were Kavinsky saying it, the statement would have been a command, an open-ended question: from where? Proko wasn’t looking for answers. If Jiang had them to give, though, he wouldn’t turn them away.

Jiang sprawled out across the couch, putting his head on his hands in Proko lap. Proko didn't even raise an eyebrow before moving to scratch at Jiang's hairline in short, soothing motions.

"I had the worst fucking dream," Jiang told him, avoiding the question. They both knew his dreams aren't really that, more like snatches of terrible memories from Jiang's far too long existence.

“What was it?” Proko asked. “Hunters?” He'd been talking to Skov lately. Hunters were just a fraction of Jiang's dreams.

But, in a way, he wasn't wrong.

"Yeah."

None of the others, save for Swan, dreamt anymore. They went to sleep and bam, they were awake again.

Jiang's sleep, by contrast, was full of nightmares. He'd lived how many lifetimes and few of them were good. But it wasn't the terrors that came at night that bothered him.

He remembered. Hunters, lost loves, deaths that could have been. Dog's blood and Taoist scrolls and black cats jumping over his grave. He remembered so much he couldn't extract the truth from the dreams, from the could-have-beens, the should-have-beens.

"You trust me," Proko said.

Jiang did. But he didn't want to tell Proko it was because he reminded him of someone who'd been dead longer than Proko's grandparents had been alive.

 _How old are you?_ Someone asked once- Jiang can't remember who- and he told them. That was decades ago. Jiang didn't tell people anymore.

“I fucked his brother.” Even Jiang was surprised by the bitterness in his voice.

"Yeah? What's your damage with him?" The brother.

"He left me for dead in Sacramento." One part of that was a lie. Jiang touched Proko's neck. "Two slivers of peach wood here, black dog's blood all around me. I was trapped, weak, and he left."

"Asshole. He could have at least finished the job. But, hey, you survived, right?"

Jiang didn't correct Proko's assumption. Declan Lynch was a hunter, a good one. If he wanted to torture Jiang, that would have been a way to do it.

That wasn't why it hurt. It hurt because the night before his betrayal, Jiang had slept in Declan's arms and the night before that they had fucked and the night before Declan had told Jiang he was the prettiest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. It hurt because Jiang was a fool and didn't see the long game for what it was and allowed himself to have a bit of happiness with the worst possible candidate. It hurt because some nights he still dreamed about Declan and his words, his sensuous, twisting lies. It hurt because his dead heart leapt at the thought of seeing him again, alive and whole, handsome as the day he'd left.

"I'm harder to kill than that," Jiang said, digging his fingers into Proko's skinny sides. Proko moaned, slutty as always, and arched his back, pushing his stomach out to press against the hand Jiang placed there. Jiang could fuck him if he wanted, could give the little cockslut everything he needed, but he wasn't in the mood for K's temper today. So he held onto Proko's hips lightly and whispered silly words in his ear that made Proko laugh breathlessly. He held Proko a little closer than wise, grinding softly against him until there was the faintest reek of sex between them. It was good like this, gentle and meaningless, clothes on.

When was the last time it hadn't been meaningless? The answer, Jiang knew, was Declan.

Maybe it was time to catch a plane, fly back home, and find the city where he was born. He had wandered this continent too long. What was there left to learn? To experience? People weren't meant to live this long. Jiang had no goals to drive him forward, no passion to keep him alive.

He could see it in K, too, that purposelessness straying into apathy. Swan at least had Proko to consume him and Proko had no desire to give up just yet.

 

* * *

 

 

"He knows something," Skov said.

Kavinsky continued to watch Jiang whispering in Proko's ear. The two snickered to each other, the picture of innocence.

There was no question who Skov was talking about. Proko would never withhold information from Kavinsky. He wasn't clever enough by half. "Is it dangerous?"

"It might be."

"Prokopenko," Kavinsky called. Proko looked up immediately. Always so obedient. "Come here."

Proko didn't even glance at Jiang as he came. Good. Jiang couldn't appreciate him.

"What were you and Jiang talking about?" Kavinsky asked as Proko plopped down next to him.

Proko didn't think to lie. "He's been having bad dreams. Hunters."

"There aren't any hunters here," Skov said.

Proko's eyes didn't stray from K's face when he said, "I know."

Kavinsky pushed him away, suddenly irritated. He remembered to run a hand along Proko's jawline before he left, a semblance of affection. It wasn't Proko he was irritated at. Or it was. He shouldn't have turned him.

Frustrated, Kavinsky stood up. He needed to be alone. Or with Lynch, one of the two. None one, not even Prokopenko, felt as right as Lynch.

Lynch, whether he knew it or not, was key to figuring out the mystery that was the gaping hole inside Joseph Kavinsky.

 

* * *

 

 

Blame it on his father but Kavinsky had a terrible habit of watching people from doorways. People were best observed when they weren't aware they were being observed. They were honest that way and more real.

He didn't usually watch people while they were sleeping.

It was a poor excuse to say Ronan Lynch had made the mistake of falling asleep in this house, that there were some who would be more than happy to take advantage of that fact, and that Kavinsky intended to warn the house (different from  _this_ house in a subtle but entirely understandable way) off Lynch. It was, of course, true.

Just not  _as_ true as the truth.

Lynch was passed out on the floor of a room whose chief function was being empty. It was possible it had been built with the purpose of housing a bed and various furniture and that said bed had been destroyed in a fit of drunken revelry. There were scratches on the floor that could have been from dragging a bedframe, dropping said bedframe on its side, and dragging it the rest of the way through the door. As of right now, the only contents of the room were Lynch and the lights.

Miniscule, glowing points of light crowded around the sleeping man. As Kavinsky watched, they moved back and forth, though they stayed close to Lynch.

Kavinsky stepped into the room softly, so as not to disturb them. He got down on his haunches and reached a hand out to the strange things.

He sifted his hand between them or tried to. They skittered away from his touch.

He grasped one, ignoring its high-pitched protest. A bird skull, glowing, the size of a bead. He squeezed it, testing its strength. The thing squealed again. Kavinsky let it go. Mini-skull immediately rejoined its fellows, clittering and clacking as they crowded around Lynch.

Kavinsky left before Lynch woke up.

There was something intensely familiar and right about this situation. For Kavinsky, who hadn't felt right in a long time, that was a comfort.

He felt full, that was the truth of it. The bite healed things inside Kavinsky that he'd lived with so long their absence was frightening. Who was he without his need for approval? His desperation for attention? His hatred of the world in general?

And there was something else missing. He used to be   _more_. He knew it. He simply couldn't remember  _what_.

Ronan Lynch had just answered that question.


	7. Chapter 7

Joseph Kavinsky woke and the world was wrong.

In point of fact, the world had been wrong for a very long time and no one, save for Kavinsky and that liar Jiang, knew it.

There was nothing worse than being forgotten. Having your name wiped from the history books was one thing. Having it erased from all records was another. Kavinsky knew who he was. He was born in Newark, to two parents, both of whom had as much affection for him as he did them, and he came to Virginia in 2009 and it was in Virginia that he died.

There were no records to prove this. His parents, both of whom were somehow alive, didn't recognize him. He killed them for that, of course, drained them of their blood, but even in their last seconds, there was no recognition in their eyes. It was as if he never was.

That was not the greatest injustice. That came to him in the brief moments between wakefulness and what little sleep his body wrestled from him.

Dreams. Forgeries. Creation.

Once, Kavinsky could take the very stuff of dreams and bring it into the waking world. Cars, drugs, money, anything he wanted could be his, stolen from a place no one else could reach. He had only to think it and a thing existed. He had only to touch it and a thing was stolen. Then he would wake and an impossible thing was his.

You could say this was all a dream, one preciously real. It wasn't. Kavinsky would swear that on his dead father's grave. This was a _memory_.

And it was a loss. He had been robbed of his dreams. When the world remade (because it had to have been remade, an alternate timeline forged, he couldn't have been forgotten like that, only Proko capable of remembering him) it was remade without his power.

He would have it back.

 

* * *

 

Kavinsky saw Lynch fingering the bite on his neck and he laughed. For days now, the man had been touching it, refusing to believe that, yes, it was exactly what he thought it was.

He sauntered over.

"It's not going to go away if you keep touching it."

Lynch looked up, startled and angry. His anger was delicious. Always right there, just boiling under the surface.

"Do you always bite people like that?"

Kavinsky shrugged. It was a deliberate gesture, calculated to have Lynch looking at him. And why shouldn't he do it? He was the most interesting person here. Lynch _should_ be looking at him.

"It looked like something you'd be into." A grin etched itself across Kavinsky's face. "We could try it again if you'd like."

Lynch didn't take the hint. He touched the bite again. Kavinsky could have licked over the bite, healed it just like that. He'd left it bleeding for a reason.

"Come on, Lynch, work with me here." Even if Lynch wasn't smart enough to get the implication, he should be able to see the invitation layered over top it. Proko hadn't had a problem.

And there it was. Ronan's face twisted into a look of shock, followed by disgust butted up against pure wonder/horror.

"You're not a- vampires aren't _real_."

"Real as life." Kavinsky's smile grew, only now he let his fangs descend, grow longer, more menacing. "I can bite if you still have your doubts. No charge. Not for you, Ro-ro."

"Fireworks," Lynch said, a touch desperate. "You make fireworks. I thought fire was dangerous to vampires."

"Who isn't fire dangerous for?" Skov mused. Kavinsky had felt them coming. They always had his back.

"We live for danger," Proko chimed in, his eyes daring Lynch to back down. Kavinsky glanced at him. He never meant to turn him. Turning meant responsibility. It meant keeping someone for, possibly, an eternity. Kavinsky wasn't ready for that.

But when pretty, pretty Prokopenko was on the verge of dying, Kavinsky wasn't thinking about anything but a future alone.

Lynch wouldn't be like that. Lynch _meant_ something. He had what Kavinsky was missing. All Kavinsky had to do was convince Lynch to help him get it back.

"Who wants to live forever?" Kavinsky asked. "You? Not me, that's for goddamn sure."

 

* * *

 

"I was like you once," Kavinsky continued. "Awful, isn't it? All that self-hate and loathing, all that repression. All that dreaming." His lips curved on the word, making it a hateful thing. "I found a way out and you can, too."

Noah had been right. Noah or Ronan's subconscious or whatever it was that had told him Kavinsky was an undead creature of the night had been _right_.

The racing, the fireworks, the drinking. All of it had been a mask for this, an underbelly of vampires and blood and coffins in the basement. Ronan should have known. He should have noticed how none of them ever seemed to eat, how unbelievably reckless they were. How many times had he seen Prokopenko wiping red liquid from his chin? How many times had Skov led the frat members in wildly dangerous activities not a single one of them had been hurt by?

This was not real. It couldn't be.

And, yet, this morning Ronan had woken up with a pair of keys in his hand belonging to a car he didn't drive.

"I won't let you turn me."

Kavinsky laughed, a sound as beautiful as it was abhorrent. "You think you have a choice? What, you'd rather grow old? Fuck dreams. Fuck reality. I'm beyond all of that. Look at this. Can your dreaming do this?" Ronan looked about the house. His dreaming could do all of this. "Imagine what you could do with a hundred years, a thousand. I can do that for you. I can turn you into something that's never existed before. And I can make you live forever." His grin stretched almost comically across his face, fangs catching the light. "All you have to do is say yes and this can be us forever."

"No," Ronan says. "It can't."

No one stopped him leaving.

"You're going to reconsider, Lynch," Kavinsky called. "I know you will. This is what's best for you. You know it. I know it. When you figure that out, I'll be here waiting."


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t hard to infiltrate the party. Ashley wore her age well and slutty costumes were a dime a dozen this time of year.

Bloodsuckers. Holding a Halloween party. It was almost quaint.

They had done a poor job covering their trail, too. A decade or so ago, hunters took down a coven similar to this one, maybe twenty vamps total. Obviously, they missed one if he was rebuilding.

The vamp she hooked up with was a tool with a Czech surname who was all too happy to show her around the house. He filled her in on “his boys”, what must be the coven's inner circle. Ashley blessed her luck.

As the night was winding down, she sidled up to the leader, a gaunt man of average height, vicious and Eastern European.

For a moment, she thought it was going to be easy. She had him away from his coven, he was focused on her, the music was loud enough no one would hear her stake him.

Oh, but you didn't live this long without being clever.

 

* * *

 

 

His name was Kavinsky and he was not old. He had lived longer than he should but he was not _old_.

The house's second generation did not care for seniority. Charisma, cruelty, protection of the house, those were what was important.

All of this the vamp told her as he held her mesmerized. It was a rookie mistake, looking him in the eyes without mental shields. Ashley imagined he had been charming in life. Not her style but the human could have kept her interested. The vamp had her captivated.

Frozen, she could only hold the stake upraised.

"Do you know," Kavinsky asked, his followers milling about him, "what happened to me? I was killed. By my own father. He pointed a gun at my head and he shot. When it came time to bury me, did he mourn? No, he did not. And now I’m a vampire

"Tell me, hunter, do I deserve to live less because of something I didn’t choose? Will you stake me to change the world? Do you really think my death will change anything?"

"No," Ashley said, "but then I'm not much in the habit of thinking."

She threw the stake and a blond vamp leaped. Kavinsky ducked as his follower clawed at Ashley’s face, screaming unintelligible curses. Vicious teeth bit into Ashley’s shoulder- one of the others- and she felt the cold barrel of a gun against the back of her neck.

"Stop it," a deep, accented voice said. "Proko, Skov, get off her." They withdrew. "Hunter," the voice continued. Ashley thought Skov had said his name was Swan. "You will leave this house now."

"Or what?"

"Or I will hunt you. I am very good with my guns and other...weapons. No one in this house has been turned who does not want to be. You have no work here. So leave."

"I think I'll stay."

Swan pressed the gun deeper. "Will you? Do you really think you stand a chance? Your friends won't come to save you, your mother, either. Who else is there? You are very alone here, Ashley Lancaster."

If Ashley had any doubt, it was gone now. Swan was human. Heat radiated off him in a way it didn't the others. His dark skin was not disguising vampirism. He was using a gun. There was nothing preternatural about him.

"Fine," Ashley said. "I'll leave tonight on one condition: if he turns you, I will lock every single one of you in this house and set it on fire."

Swan's smile was barely there. "I would expect nothing less."

 

* * *

 

 

When she was a mile from the nest, Ashley pulled over to the side of the road. She whipped her phone out, dialing a number she had saved but not memorized for a while.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Declan,” she said, “I found him. And you’re never going to believe who he’s with.”


	9. Chapter 9

Swan was the first to notice the newcomer. The resemblance was striking, to the point that someone who cared little about who was being resembled, registered it. He said nothing, waiting for things to play themselves out.

Skov was the second, quickly followed by Proko, who pointed the man out to Kavinsky.

None of this Ronan noticed and so Declan’s arrival caught him unawares.

 

* * *

 

“Ronan,” Declan said.

“What are you doing here,” Ronan answered. It wasn’t a question.

Declan was not in the mood. He scanned the crowd before returning his sight to Ronan. "Matthew wanted to see you."

"What's your point?" Ronan asked.

"Are you drunk?" Declan hissed.

"I might be."

"He didn’t tell you we were coming?"

“I haven't talked to Matthew in ages. Why do you think he would talk to me now?"

A couple years back, Matthew rediscovered the missing first few years of his life and, with it, his parentage. He hadn't taken the truth well. Declan couldn't say he blamed him.

"How's Opal, Ronan? Who's looking after her now?"

"You know who," Ronan spit.

Blue Sargent was not someone Declan had ever gotten to know. Though he supposed a house full of witches was hardly the worst place for a Jungian psychopomp to grow up.

"It's only until I get back on my feet," Ronan said. "Blue keeps me updated."

Declan's lip curled in disgust. "You really look like you're getting back on your feet."

"Fuck you, Declan. You don't know my life."

"Don't I? Your brother came to see you and you can't drum up the emotion to care. Your daughter's being raised by another family. And here you are, drunk at a college party."

It was cruel but true. Ronan had been burning bridges for too long now. It was time he started rebuilding them.

"Clean yourself up and go find Matthew. He came to see you.” Declan wanted to say more, something along the lines of _get your shit together, Opal deserves to know her father. If you can't manage that, give her up_. He didn't. That was a conversation for sobriety.

 

* * *

 

 

Jiang walked down the side hallway of the house. It was quiet here. Well, quieter than the rest of the party. A bizarre in-between, the pounding of the music combined with the sense of _other_. Jiang didn't like it so much as he was used to it.

He'd almost reached the side door, hand actually closed around the doorknob, when he recognized the energy signature.

No.

He couldn't be here.

 _And why not?_ Jiang’s mind helpfully asked. _First the brother, then the huntress_. He should have known, he should have known, he should have _known_.

There was only one thing to do.

Jiang walked back into the house.

 

* * *

 

 

Jiang grabbed two solo cups and crossed the room.

Declan studied him for a moment before taking a cup. Jiang watched Declan’s throat work as he swallowed.

He was as handsome as the day Jiang met him.

Jiang took a sip of his own punch. He wrinkled his nose. Cheerwine with a heavy dosing of both whiskey and vodka. God, he hoped he didn't just roofie them both.

“I didn’t take you for the party type,” Jiang told Declan.

“Matthew wanted to come,” Declan said, looking across the room to a bundle of blonde curls. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting,” Jiang said. It was a lie but what's the truth to a liar?

Disguising it with a sip of his drink, Jiang looked at Declan from under lowered lashes. Declan had filled out, put on muscle since they last spoke. He was older, too, but then his kind aged and Jiang's didn't.

If Jiang wanted, he could kill Declan right now. If he had any self-preservation, he would.

"I'm not interested in your games, creature."

"Oh, is it creature now? If I recall correctly, you used to have other names for me."

Declan ignored him. "Why are you here?"

Jiang smiled wryly. “I could ask you the same question.”

Declan searched the crowd for Matthew, only relaxing when he spotted him talking to a gaggle of sorority girls. And Skov but Skov could talk to anyone.

“Walk with me,” Declan said.

Jiang did.

Solid judgment was apparently not on Jiang’s list tonight. The second they were out of sight, Declan’s hand snaked out. It grabbed him by the throat and he was thrown bodily against the wall, a wooden knife against his neck.

Jiang would be in trouble right about now, if breathing were a thing he needed to do.

"Tell me one good reason I shouldn't cut your head off."

"Lingering affection? Faith in your fellow man? Passion?" Jiang grinned with a laziness he didn't feel. He leaned against the wall enough to ease the pressure on his throat. "Or how about the fact that that won't work? It's peach you need, not cherry. You've got your myths mixed up."

Declan lowered the knife. Jiang's grin grew.

"Did you miss me?"

"What are you doing here, Jiang?"

"Could ask you the same question. But that's not what you really want to know, is it? You never told me the Greywaren was your brother."

Declan glowered. "What do you want with him?"

"Me? Nothing. I want him gone. I swore off Lynchs a long time ago so imagine my surprise when your little fucking brother showed up here."

"You've always gone where there's power."

"I told you- the Greywaren came here. The head- Kavinsky- he wants him. You better get him out before-"

"Before he turns him? Ronan would never allow that."

Jiang scowled. "You know what, never mind. Why would you listen to me?" He leaned forward. "Your brother's in danger, D. But you destroy this house, I will hunt you down. You've had all the time in the world to kill me. I used to think that meant something. Now I'm starting to think you don't know how. Get your brother out of here and then leave. No one's being hurt here who doesn't want to be."

Declan didn't like that answer.

"Fuck," Jiang said, the words only constricted because human speech still worked the same as it always had and right now, his airflow was slightly blocked.

“I’m going to ask you again: why are you here?”

“Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

“No.”

Smart boy. Man, Jiang corrected himself. He was a man now.

Declan's fingers flexed around Jiang's throat. It was rather boring without the danger of passing out. Though Jiang could make _Declan_ pass out, right here, right now, and they both knew it.

“Are you going to kill me with so many witnesses around? If you are, get it over with.”

“I don't want you dead.”

“Could have fooled me,” Jiang muttered.

"I was here first," he said. "Your brother showed up a few months ago, just like I said. Satisfied?"

"No," Declan said but his hand dropped to Jiang’s shoulder. "Stay away from my brother," he warned.

Jiang massaged his throat, feeling the phantom pain of peach slivers. “He’s carrying a ghost with him, D. I can barely feel him some days.”

Declan sighed. “I know.”

“Is this because of…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“People don’t come here because they’re happy,” Jiang said. His voice dropped. “This isn’t a place for the living.”

Declan didn't contradict him. It was a college campus. Kavinsky was courting disaster with every step. Lynch wouldn’t last long.

Declan looked him up and down. Jiang knew what he was thinking: _you look better than the last time I saw you_. Jiang could smell black dog’s blood. He could hear the rattle of adzuki beans.

“You look older,” he told Declan.

“You don’t.”

 _Perks_ , Jiang didn't say, _of being a member of the undead_.

Declan was still looking at him. Jiang met his gaze and it was a mistake, it was such a mistake.

Almost as much a one as walking over here.

Declan tasted like the awful punch.


	10. Chapter 10

Matthew liked it here.

Ronan's friends were nice, the girls were pretty, and the beer was good. Declan had been antsy the whole drive down but Ronan had been so happy to see him and they had watched a movie and it was all so nice.

Ronan's friend Skov had said the party would be going on all night. Matthew was going to ask Declan and Ronan if it was okay to go back but he couldn't find Declan and Ronan was asleep. So he patted Ronan's pet raven on the head and he went back to the party.

The party was still going when he got back, just like Skov said. A couple of people were on the roof with sparklers. Matthew wanted to join them but he knew Declan wouldn't have liked it. Oh, well.

He went into the house.

He danced with a very pretty girl named Stephanie and her friend Alexa. They laughed when he told them he never went to parties this late and invited him to another one.

Skov came up to him after that and said, "Hey, man, a couple of us are playing _GTA IV_ in the basement, you want to join?" Boy, did Matthew ever.

Matthew was just about to get his turn when one of the walls became a vortex.

The light was so bright it drowned everything out, even the shrieks of the people turning to dust. A man stepped through the portal, light surrounding him like an all-body halo. He extended a hand to Matthew.

"Come with me."

Learning not to trust people had always been hard for Matthew. The man was handsome, model beautiful, and he reminded Matthew of another time, another life Declan told him he mustn't tell anyone about.

He wanted that life back.

So he took the man's hand and he went through the portal and into the light.


	11. Chapter 11

The feel of something wet under his foot woke Ronan. It turned out to be beer, cold and unpleasant, from a bottle that had tipped over in the night.

Ronan cursed and ripped his damp sock off.

"Ronan," Noah said.

Ronan groaned. It was too early for him to be seeing things.

"Matthew?" Ronan called. "You want breakfast?"

There was no answer.

"Matthew, come on, man. There's a couple dining halls on campus I can get you in. Breakfast buffet. You'll love it." The cheer sounded false in Ronan's mouth. He was trying. It had been a long time since he and Matthew spent so much time together. He didn't want to fuck this up. "Matthew?" Where the fuck did that kid go?

"Ronan," Noah said. Then, more insistently. "Ronan."

"What?!"

"I've been trying to tell you. I can’t find Matthew."

 

* * *

 

The sun was burning through the morning mist when Jiang made his way back to the house. He stumbled up the stairs to the bathroom. Snagging someone else's toothbrush (hopefully not Skov's), he brushed his teeth and made a face. All these years and he still couldn't stand the feel of toothpaste in his mouth.

As his senses come back to him, he frowned. The house wasn't simply quiet- it was empty. Right now, there should be at least a dozen spots of energy. Jiang couldn't feel a single one.

There were a few outside the house but that was outside.

An unease settled in the pit of Jiang's stomach. It was never this empty this time of day. These were prime napping hours. There should be dozens of vamps lying around, dead asleep.

He was about to write it off when he heard people approach the house.

For a moment, Jiang thought one of them was Swan, returned from who knows what (certainly not a booty call), but the energy, while similar in shape and temperament, veered wildly left in terms of nature.

Just to be sure, Jiang opened the window and took a sniff of the morning air. Then he swore.

 

* * *

 

Declan forced the door.

"So do I blame you for this," Jiang said from his seat at the top of the steps, "or was it a group effort?"

"Where is he?" Declan asked, voice deadly.

"You're going to have to be more specific. There are a lot of people missing."

Declan climbed the stairs. Ronan followed him. Declan grabbed Jiang by the front of his shirt when he reached the top and shoved him for good measure. Jiang's back hit the railing post. "My brother. Is. Missing. What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything. When would I have been able to? I only just got back."

"You left around four." Jiang's expression wavered for a second, only for his lazy, sleepy, _bored_ expression to fall back into place. "That gave you plenty of time."

"Ronan," Noah insisted quietly, "I can't feel him. He's not _here_."

“Matthew's missing,” Ronan said. "Did he come back here?"

“Try his phone again,” Declan snapped.

“When's the last time you saw him?” Jiang asked, feigning concern.

“Does it matter?" Ronan looked around. Only Jiang seemed to be in residence. The fuck was everybody? "Where’s Skov?”

Jiang snorted. “Hell if I know. You see this house. It’s empty. I don’t know where anybody is.”

“Matthew was talking to Skov last night, around two a.m. I got a beer. I thought he came back with me last night but he might not've." Ronan didn't want to say he didn't know. He could have sworn Matthew came back to the apartment with him.

“How many beers?” Declan was taking a sudden interest.

“A couple. It's not important.”

Declan leaned in to smell Ronan's breath. “Are you drunk right now?”

“No,” Ronan said, drawing back. “He's still not answering me. Can you call him?”

"I can't find him," Noah said. “Ronan, he's not _here_.”

“You’re helping us look,” Declan told Jiang.

 

* * *

 

Within a half hour, it was obvious Matthew was not on campus.

Neither, it would seem, were Jiang's friends. And when Jiang's texts went unanswered and Lynch's search became increasingly futile, the _yuan gui_ by his side getting agitated, Jiang's suspicions turned into full blown certainty.

He swallowed.

"Jiang," Declan asked, his voice deathly quiet, "where is my brother? Where did they take him?"

“I don't know.”

“He has nothing to do with this,” Declan said, his last word an undertone hiss. “Was it really worth it? Did they even ask you to distract me or did you volunteer?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jiang hissed right back. ”I don't know where they took your brother.” Quietly, Jiang thought his house hadn't trusted him enough to let him in on their plans. “Ask your other brother what he did.” Kavinsky could care less about Matthew.

Unless he knew. Unless Proko had told him.

The real question was: who was Kavinsky punishing? Lynch?

Or Jiang?

 

* * *

 

Declan had upgraded his Volvo to another, shinier Volvo. Jiang kicked the tire for good measure. Then he kicked it again.

"Are you done?" Adam Parrish asked dryly.

"Fuck you," Jiang replied.

Parrish didn't reply. Huh. Weird guy. He had come to help the search but so far seemed to be doing a lot more standing around than anything else.

Jiang didn't know Parrish but he was from Henrietta, where people were either extraordinary or boring as all hell. Parrish looked a little of both. Declan's brother knew him and Declan thought he should come along.

Jiang shot a blistering look in Declan's direction. He was talking to a brown-haired guy with glasses, someone Jiang had seen around campus once or twice and never had any desire to talk to. The sort of guy who thought eighteenth-century land deeds made for a riveting read.

"Fuck Declan," Jiang said. He scratched at his neck, where he could feel the tracker Declan slipped under his skin last night. Motherfucker. Maybe if he'd put one on his brothers, they wouldn't be in this mess.

Jiang resisted the urge to rip it out. In a way, it was comforting. Right now, Declan didn't want to lose him.

Man, even Proko would think that was messed up.

Jiang thought about dragging his key down the side of Declan's car. He put his keys back in his pocket when he saw Declan and Gansey making their way over, Lynch 2 in tow.

Parrish straightened up.

Declan's eyes flicked to Jiang's and the ache inside him grew. He leaned against the Volvo and jangled his keys. He could use a smoke.

He could use Declan's teeth on his collarbone.

 

* * *

 

"You didn't find him," Jiang asserted.

Declan tossed Ronan's things into the trunk and slammed it shut. "No. I highly suggest getting out of here if you have nothing to offer by way of help."

Jiang, stubbornly, stayed where he was.

"I've informed the campus police. They'll put out a search," Gansey said, putting his phone back in his pocket.

Declan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "That wasn't necessary. Thank you. Ronan, get in the car."

Ronan did not get in the car. He turns to Adam, who, unlike Gansey, hadn't brought anything that could serve as an overnight pack. "You're not coming with us?"

"Why would I?" Adam's arms were crossed over his chest, the picture of annoyance. "He's your brother. I have to get back to school. I only came down for the few days."

 

* * *

 

Declan was buckling his seatbelt when the backdoor opened. Gansey slid into the seat behind him.

“What do you think you're doing?” Ronan asked.

“I'm coming with you,” Gansey said.

“No.”

"I am," Gansey said. "This will work. I can always call Adam if we need his help." It wasn't what Ronan wanted to hear. Nothing Gansey said was. "Look, Ronan, I'm good at finding things."

"Matthew isn't one of your lost treasures," Ronan snarled.

"I know that. But I've done this before, Ronan. I _can_ find him." Ronan hated Gansey in that moment because Gansey was right. He _was_ good at finding things. But he was also Gansey and Gansey's life went right when Ronan's went wrong and every second in Gansey's presence was a reminder of that.

Noah, sitting between Jiang and Gansey in the backseat, unbeknownst to both of them, fiddled with his sleeve. The way he was tugging on it, the raven emblem on his shirt seemed to move. Ronan's blood burned. Without the uniform, he could be older than seventeen. With it, he was a moment frozen still, only whole in the moments Ronan's mind refused to see the blood staining his shirt, the shattered cheekbone.

"I want Gansey to come," Noah said.

"Fine," Ronan told Gansey. "You can come."

Declan started the car.


	12. Chapter 12

"Pick a card," Orla said, dropping the deck on the Blue's bed artlessly, "any card."

"Buzz off, Orla,” said Blue since Opal didn't need any more exposure to swearwords.

"I've got a 3:30 and I'm dreadfully out of practice," Orla said. "Indulge me."

Blue took a card. As she moved to turn it over, Orla grabbed her arm.

"A-ha!" Orla exclaimed. "The Page of Cups-"

"Big surprise there," Blue muttered.

"Don't interrupt me. The Page of Cups, reversed." Orla tapped a long, fuchsia fingernail against her lip. Dabblers in tarot tended to see reverse readings as inherently negative. Persephone had always been a fan of them. Maura had not. "Means you're an immature runt who is in desperate need of a new look." She tossed her oodles of hair over one shoulder. "Ha! I guess I didn't need the practice after all."

"Your tableside manner sucks."

Orla stuck out her tongue. "I only put on the show for big bucks. Family gets bare bones."

Disgusted, Blue moved towards the kitchen. There should be some yogurt left.

"Blue," Orla called. "Maura doesn't use reverse readings, does she?"

Orla knew the answer to that. "I'm the Page of Cups," Blue said. She opened the refrigerator and grabbed the only yogurt in there. Greek with chunks of peach on the bottom. Scowling, she ripped the label off anyway. "That's what I've always been."

Come to think of it, her card hadn't faced up since she was in high school.


	13. Chapter 13

This was all Kavinsky's fault.

Kavinsky knew about the dreaming. He had told Ronan he wanted to turn him, had offered him what sounded like the deal of a lifetime: eternal life. He seemed to think Ronan would say yes.

It was a laughable choice. Continue living your shitty life, only it never stops. It goes on forever, until someone decides you're a monster and destroys you.

How could Kavinsky think Ronan would want that? He didn't know him at all.

And yet he had taken Matthew.

Where? There had to be some clue, some trail they could follow. If Ronan was the prize, Matthew was the bait.

Where was the ransom?

"Stop the car," Ronan said.

"Why?" Declan asked but he pulled over anyway.

Ronan got out. He leaped over the guardrail and skidded down the incline.

In rural parts of Virginia, it was not uncommon for people to leave buildings to fall into disrepair. No one ever seemed to have an explanation for these dilapidated structures. Perhaps the owner had moved away. Perhaps the ceiling had fallen in. It wasn't entirely uncommon to find such buildings next to a newer, fully upkept building, adding to the mystery of why no one had bothered to tear the unused house, shed, or barn down.

Ronan had spied this shack a few minutes ago. It would serve its purpose well.

First he ripped the door off its remaining hinges. Then he punched out the dusty windows. Rafters came down, a decrepit table was overturned. He tore into the baseboards, flung them against the walls. Ronan stomped on tin cans and shattered glass bottles. He screamed just to hear his own voice.

Finally, the iron nails proved too much for him. He could not tear the very walls apart, not even the one leaning in.

He went back to the car, hands dripping blood. A cut across his face stung as the wind blew against it.

Declan was leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest. Ronan sneered at him. It was unfair. Declan looked as undone as Ronan felt. Usually so smooth and polished, his face was pebbled with dark stubble. His dress shirt was creased in the wrong places. There was dirt on the hem of his pants. In that moment, he was not his politician self. He was Declan, Matthew's worried, older brother.

It was a look Ronan hated.

“If you're done your temper tantrum, we have places to be.”

“Where?" Ronan demanded. "We don't have any leads.”

Gansey's eyes watched them from the backseat of the Volvo. Jiang appeared to be asleep. Did vampires sleep? Ronan didn't know.

“Actually, we do. Does the name Henry Cheng ring a bell?”

 

* * *

 

 

They went to Baltimore first. Declan said he knew someone there. Jiang had nothing to offer up. He alternately slept and stared out the window, only acknowledging Declan to flip him the bird. The others left without him. He claimed he didn’t know where they had gone.

From what Ronan had seen, Jiang spent little enough time with Kavinsky for that to be true. Still, he was the only other person who had been there that night. They had searched the whole campus but Kavinsky and his people were gone.

In Baltimore, they stopped at a house in Franklin Square.

Declan pounded on the door. “I know you’re in there, Cheng,” he called.

The door opened. An Asian man stood in the doorway. If Ronan hadn't already known, the scowl on Declan's face would have told him this wasn't Cheng.

“He isn’t here,” the man said. “He left this morning.”

“Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know.”

Another man, also Asian, though thinner and far less handsome, peered curiously at them from the hallway.

Ronan’s cellphone rang. It wasn’t that he ignored it: at this point, it was white noise. Until recently, cellphones were not something Ronan used. In fact, he had to fish this one out from under his bed where it had sat for months, uncharged.

It wasn’t until it began ringing a second cycle that Ronan remembered why he started making an exception. He picked it up.

“Put me on speakerphone,” a vaguely familiar voice said.

Jiang reached over and pressed the button for him. Ronan scowled.

“Good to hear you’re alive and well, Declan,” the voice said. “I think it’s fair to assume you’re looking for my help?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Where are you, Cheng?”

“A couple thousand miles from you. Think south, not north.” Henry Cheng said cheerfully. “My mother sends her regards. She’s glad you’ve found Ronan.” Seondeok actually said it was time enough Declan found that person he’d been looking for but these things were always phrased in ambiguous terms. “It is always so hard keeping track of people, isn’t it?”

“What does she know?”

“Many things. Why the sun comes up. Why birds sing. Why a firstborn son would hate his destiny.” Henry’s voice dipped low on that last sentence. Declan was dangerous. Right now, he was standing at Cheng2’s and Rutherford’s doorstep, using false information Henry planted, all in a bid to keep _something more_ out of Henry’s life. “She can’t help you find what you’ve lost. But I can.”

“Says the man who ran.”

“You travel in the company of the undead. I prefer meeting with people who are alive.” Strange. For a moment, the word “resurrected” tried to roll off Henry’s tongue.

“Is that right? And here I thought it was personal.”

“Nonsense,” Henry said breezily. Of everything he had said so far, this was by far the likeliest to qualify as a lie. Henry Cheng wanted nothing to do with Declan Lynch. Or Seondeok, but one couldn't choose one’s parents, can they? “I have an associate who can help you. You’ll find him in Annandale.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Ronan saw was a borzoi with scales.

Hackles raised, lips rolled back to reveal sharp, white teeth, it growled at them from the doorway of a modest home. Above the threshold was a sign in Korean.

"Stephen!" an attractive if overly plump man admonished, pushing the dog to the side. The dog glanced up at him. After several long seconds, it looked away and stalked into the confines of the house. "Sorry about him, he's a little overprotective. Come, come," the man said, gesturing them inside. "Leave your shoes by the door."

Henry's friend was a handsome man with a kind face and large, aqueous eyes. Not particularly tall nor particularly short, he did not strike an imposing figure nor an altogether mystical one. The only thing that painted him otherworldly were the robes he wore, layered blue, red, and yellow. They were distracting in their colorfulness, so distracting, in fact, that Ronan nearly forgot about the dog.

The shaman sat down in a chair and the dog placed its head in his lap.

"Henry says I'm to help you," the shaman said, stroking the dog's black mane. The dog's visible eye looked at them balefully. "You should know I typically charge for my services."

"We're looking for someone," Declan told him.

"Why come to me? You have better resources at your disposal."

"We're hoping you can channel someone."

"Will you do a ritual for us?" Gansey asked.

“What, for you to gawk at? No,” the shaman said, petting the dog's head. He smiled down at it gently. “It isn't me you need to help you.”

Declan's jaw twitched. “If Cheng's sent us on a wild goose chase-”

The shaman fixed them with a sobering gaze. “I said it wasn't my help you needed, not that you were in the wrong place.”

“Then who?”

With something that sounded alarmingly like a human sigh, the dog-like creature pulled its head out of the shaman’s lap. It leaned back on its hind legs. With an awful sound like bones shifting, its features became distorted, stretching and shrinking. The scales receded and the mane slithered back into its head as it continued to grow, going and going until it reached a full height of well over six feet. The dog face melted away to reveal a slim man with black hair, tanned skin, and brown, puffy eyes.

“Me,” he said.

Still seated, the shaman smiled. "I have already performed a ritual, to tell me where your brother is. Stephen will lead you to him. He will be far more useful on your journey than I would. Among the haetae's natural gifts is the ability to identify liars and wrongdoers. Where you're going, you'll need that."

 

* * *

 

 

Obviously agitated, a duffel bag slung across his chest, the haetae was talking quietly with the shaman. The shaman placed a hand on his cheek and smiled softly. The haetae did not look happy with his words.

"Let's go," the haetae said, storming towards the door.

Ronan and Declan were arguing outside.

"Oh, great, Declan, wonderful. We drove all the way out here just to drive back. Fucking genius."

"Henry Cheng is not an easy man to find," Declan hissed back. He climbed into the Volvo and shut the door. Ronan slammed his door in retaliation.

"This," Gansey said, "is cozy." He was crammed in the backseat between Jiang and the dog-turned-man. "Do you have a name?" he asked the latter politely. "Henry didn't mention it."

The haetae looked at him in disbelief. "Cheng always called me SickSteve."

"Sick...Steve?"

The haetae curled his lip. "Cheng is his own brand of interesting."

"I'm Richard Campbell Gansey III."

"I know."

"You can call me Gansey."

"Or I can call you nothing."

"There is that."

"Where to now, Declan?" Gansey asked, turning his attention to their driver.

"The AT," Declan and SickSteve said at the same time.

“The Appalachian Trail?” Gansey asked in surprise.

“Certain places are easier for humans to pass into other layers of reality, other worlds if you will," SickSteve explained. "This is one of them. We'll go to Devil's Marbleyard and pass through there.”

Devil's Marbleyard was a natural wonder in a county filled with them. Located on the Belfast Trail, which, while not technically part of the Appalachian Trail, converged with it at one point, the jumble of Antietam quartzite boulders was a popular hiking definition. Hundreds of millions of years before, the rockfall had been a sandy beach inhabited largely by worms. Time had condensed the sand and the convergence of tectonic plates which had created the Appalachian mountains had subsumed it. For millenia the quartzite lay beneath the mountains. Erosion brought it into the open air once more. Ice split the sheets of rock into refrigerator- and car-sized boulders and gravity caused the boulders to tumble downhill, creating a rockfall of mammoth proportions. 

“Oh, yes, I'm aware. What I meant was that I was surprised. The trail follows a ley line.”

Ronan frowned. Ley line. The word seemed familiar to him but from where, he couldn't remember. One of Gansey's paranormal phenomena, most likely. It had been so long since Ronan had heard his lectures, only a few key phrases stuck out to him now. He let the thought slip away.

The only thing that mattered was finding Matthew.

 

* * *

 

A park ranger was cordoning off the parking lot when they arrived. Declan rolled down the window. Before he had a chance to ask, the ranger told them in brisk, unequivocal terms, "Big thunderstorm coming through. We can't let anyone onto the trail.”

“Not even for a short look around?” Gansey asked, poking his head over Declan's headrest. “We've traveled terribly far to see the boulders.”

Irritation passed over the ranger's face and was quickly replaced by a look of practiced doggedness. “Trail's closed, sir. You can come back tomorrow.” She finished cordoning off the parking lot, then turned to stand in front of the chain, hands on both her hips. It was clear that she would not be leaving until she had seen that they had.

“What should we do now?" Gansey asked. This was directed at Declan.

“We could try to sneak in,” Ronan said.

“To federal land?” SickSteve asked. “I'd rather not.”

“What do you propose?”

"There's another entrance," SickSteve said. “It's a couple miles south of here. Less inconspicuous, though.”

On a normal day, Ronan did not care about being inconspicuous.

“There isn't a better place to go through?" Gansey was set on taking this entrance. He probably thought, if he talked to the ranger enough, she would change her mind. "There's a ley line here.”

“That would be an option,” SickSteve said, “if _someone_ hadn't damaged it.” He looked at Declan meaningfully. “Thankfully, some places are a little harder to make dormant. And I don't need a ley line to travel between worlds.”

"If you're so talented," Declan snapped, "take us through now."

"What, and get stuck on the other side? This many passengers would overload me. Even if I took you individually, I'd only manage to get half of you over before I needed a break and my breaks are a couple of days."

"Just tell me where the damned entrance is," Declan said through gritted teeth.

 

* * *

 

“Federal is out but regular trespassing is okay?” Gansey peered out the fogged up mirror at what appeared to be an abandoned 7-Eleven. The signs were gone but the building was unmistakable: squat, brick facade, a tapering roof. It had been abandoned for a while, if the payphone and pitted asphalt were anything to go by.

“Oh, I'm not breaking in,” SickSteve said. “You are.” He looked at Ronan, Jiang, and Declan expectantly.

A lock hung from the heavy chain threaded between the door handles. Declan moved to pick it. Before he could, it fell open with a clank.

Declan looked at Jiang accusingly.

“Wasn't me,” Jiang said.

“You first,” Declan said to Gansey. “Exploration is, after all, your specialty.”

The 7-Eleven was bathed in half-light from the windows. Dust littered the floor. There was a smell not unlike a defrosted refrigerator, underlaid with the stench of rotting food. Gansey could see a puddle by the freezer, empty plastic bags that must have once held ice now empty. He looked around. The shelves were fully stocked, the coolers full. It looked, for all the world, like the shopkeeper had closed up one day and never come back.

"It's safe," Gansey called.

The others followed him in.

"God, it stinks in here," Jiang said. No one paid any attention to him.

Declan began going through the shelves, shoving items into a leather overnightbag. He cleaned out the medicine and homegoods aisle before moving to the coolers. Gansey examined a bag of chips.

"These are expired," he told Declan. This did not appear to be something Declan cared about. He continued packing the overnight bag full.

Ronan was looking at the wine selection.

"No," Ganseysaid. Ronan shot him a disgusted look and walked away. 

"How do we cross over?" Gansey asked SickSteve, who was scrolling through his phone.

"Backroom," SickSteve answered without looking up.

It had been an office once, a storeroom, or both. A desk covered in papers and discarded refuse lay under a thick layer of dust. Stacks of Coca-Cola products still sat stacked in plastic crates. Gansey wondered what had happened here, what had caused a store toclose up with its product still inside.

It reminded him, horrifyingly, depressingly, of Pompeii.

"There's nothing here," Gansey said.

SickSteve remained absorbed in his phone. "Close the door."

Ronan slammed it shut.

And, suddenly, they weren't in an abandoned 7-Eleven any more.

 

* * *

 

 

Pins and needles. That was the feeling of walking between worlds. A stinging mist surrounded them. It pressed in, filling the space, making it hard to breathe. Every inhale burned, every exhale was relief.

It was an eternity.

It was over in seconds.

Where there had been a grimy backroom, there was now only a grassy moorand a grey sky.

"Welcome," SickSteve said, shoving his phone into his pocket, "to Elphyne." He began striding across the moor. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

"You want us to walk?" Ronan asked, disbelief evident. There was nothing here. They would be walking forever before they came across anything, let alone Matthew.

"Unless you plan on materializing a vehicle out of thin air, I don't see an alternative," Declan said.

Ronan pretended not to hear. Ronan Lynch had several secrets, most of which Declan had become privy to, despite Ronan never actually telling him them. And it wasn't as though he could just fall asleep here and now.

"Shop's closed. Come back later."

Declan scowled.

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you alright?" Ronan heard Gansey ask. 

Jiang had paused, leaning heavily against acluster of granite boulders. He settled gingerly onto one of them.

"I'm fine," Jiang said, settling gingerly onto one of the boulders. He sounded out of breath. "I just need to sit."

Declan, scowling, walked over to them. He knelt down in front of Jiang and grabbed his chin. He turned it this way and that, looking into Jiang's eyes.

"When's the last time you ate?" he demanded.

"Two days ago."

SickSteve clicked his tongue.

"Four," Jiang admitted. His eyes flicked from SickSteve to Declan. "I only need to feed twice a week. You know that."

"You don't normally engage in this much physical activity, Jiang. You should have said something yesterday, before you overexerted yourself."

Jiang said nothing.

"Do you need blood?" Gansey asked, looking about to offer his own. Ronan took a step forward. Giving blood was not something Gansey was going to be doing today.

"He doesn't drink blood," Declan answered. He turned to SickSteve. "How far is it to your friend's house?"

"Three miles. Forty-five minutes’ walk, tops."

"Jiang," Declan said.

"It won't be fun for you."

"Do it."

Jiang reached out a hand, palm upward. Declan’s fingertips barely touched Jiang’s. His eyes widened, then lowered to half-mast. He swayed. Jiang looked at him sullenly.

"He'll need a minute," he said, getting off the boulder. Declan took his place, sitting down heavily, head in his hands.

"What did you do to him?" Ronan stared at his brother. Declan looked _exhausted_.

"I fed." Jiang sounded annoyed and completely unrepentant. "That's what I do. D knew what he was asking for. That doesn't make it any less stupid," he added, turning to Declan. "Now we're both tired."

"And you can walk," Declan snapped back. He groaned and massaged his temples. "Did you have to take so much?"

"Don't be a baby. You know damn well I only took what I needed. You'll be fine in a couple minutes. This place revitalizes you people."

They glowered at each other. Jiang was the first to look away.

 

* * *

 

 

It took them an hour. They kept the pace slow, no one talking. The ground rose slowly as they followed SickSteve across a series of hills.

Finally, they came across a low stone wall surrounding a bare courtyard. Within it, stood a palatial, Joseon Era home. Its roof was black and slanted, the edges curving upwards to reveal elaborately painted endposts. The walls were paneled a pale red and green.

"Litchfield House," Gansey said.

"You know this place?" SickSteve asked.

"Ah, no." Gansey frowned. "No, I don't. It just seems familiar is all. Déjà vu." He didn't seem certain.

SickSteve snorted and turned away, continuing their ascent. “Déjà vu or not, you got the name right."

Litchfield House, Jiang read from the placard on the low stone wall. Or rather didn't read. The words swam before his eyes, only clear when he didn't concentrate on them.

“What is this place?”

“My home,” SickSteve said. “Once.”

“Before we go in,” SickSteve added, “there is one thing I must tell you. One of the men who may help us is a vampire. The other is a _gumiho_.”

Ronan and Gansey looked at him in confusion.

“A kitsune,” SickSteve clarified.

There was recognition but no understanding.

“It is very unusual,” SickSteve said slowly, “for a gumiho to be male. But I assure you, Ryang is. He is also very old and unlikely to help anyone who offends him.”

He knocked on the door.

An elderly Korean woman wearing hanbok opened it.

“Hello, _ajumma_ ,” SickSteve said. “Is Ryang here?”

“No,” the woman replied. “He's gone in search of his jewel. Who are these people?”

“They're looking for help,” SickSteve said.

“This is a very dangerous place to be looking for that,” the woman said. Her eyes shifted to Declan. "This place is a refuge. Tread carefully, hunter. Your kind is not welcome here."

Jiang’s brow creased. He swore he knew her. Shave off a few decades and she looked awfully like a woman he met in Pusan back when it was Pusan.

“And you," the woman said, looking right at him. "You come too. Whatever you're calling yourself these days.”

“Jiang,” Jiang replied.

The woman sniffed. “Rather on the nose, don't you think?”

Declan snickered. Jiang elbowed him.

“It's a name.”

 

* * *

 

 

“A human passed this way,” Mrs. Woo said, “in the company of fae.”

“Do you know where they could have gone?”

Mrs. Woo placed cups of tea in front of each of them. The peach notes coming off of Jiang’s made him nauseous. Gansey and SickSteve had no problem drinking their tea. Ronan and Declan left theirs untouched.

“To the fae stronghold,” Mrs. Woo said plainly. “It’s a day or two northeast of here.”

“Have you heard anything of vampires, Woo-ssi?” Declan asked. His politeness was as smooth as it was false. Jiang found it far more comforting than the presence of a woman who put poison in her guests’ tea. “Three of them, traveling with two humans?”

“I know of three vampires,” Mrs. Woo said, gazing at Declan with unblinking eyes, “traveling with one human.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Gansey said, interrupting, “what are you? I apologize but kitsune is not a term I happen to be familiar with.”

Jiang stiffened. The Lynch brothers must have noticed the tension. Ronan hewed closer to Gansey while Declan pasted a bland, politician’s smile across his face.

“You may be more familiar with the English name for my kind: nine-tailed fox.”

No, that wasn't right. Nine-tailed foxes could be benign. Jiang remembered the stories. The huli jing of Jiang’s country could be kind, even helpful creatures. Gumiho were tricksters made: ancient fox beings who feasted on human livers.

"We are shapeshifters," Mrs. Woo told Gansey, pouring him another cup of tea. "Indigenous to East Asia. No more able to change what we are than you."

"We should be going," Declan said, standing up. Jiang was quick to copy him. "Thank you for your hospitality, Woo-ssi."

“Oh, you won't be leaving,” Mrs. Woo said. “It’s been a long time since humans graced my doorstep.” She licked her lips. “You won't begrudge an old woman a taste?” As she lifted her hands, her fingernails sprouted into long, ragged claws. Her incisors became enormous as they descended into fangs. Long, foxlike ears extended from her white hair.

“Run,” SickSteve said.

Jiang did not feel like running. He could if he had to but he definitely didn't have to.

He reached a hand out and touched her gnarled fingers. God, it had been so long since he'd properly fed. Declan had been a taste, delicious but not nearly enough. Mrs. Woo's eyes widened as he drained her, pushing far past his normal reservations. When she reached critical levels, enough to make her lose consciousness, Jiang let her go. She fell to the floor, a harmless old woman.

“It won’t hold her for long. Maybe an hour or two.”

Gumiho regenerated quickly.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite Jiang's assurances that _they had time, guys, running is an option, not a necessity_ , they run from Litchfield House, not stopping until they'd put an impressive distance between themselves and the gumiho's residence.

They stopped, even SickSteve gasping for breath.

"What now?" Gansey asked.

"Ronan," Declan said.

"I can't," Ronan snapped. "You act like it's so easy, _you_ make me sleep."

"I could knock you out," Jiang offered.

"That wouldn't work."

"Declan might have sleeping pills." Declan had filled a bag with half the nonperishables in the 7-Eleven and more than half of the pills.

The skin around Declan's eyes tightened. Jiang realizes belatedly the many ways his statement could have been interpreted. You'd think he'd better with words by now.

There was no apology to be had. Declan was already rummaging through his bag.

"Take two," he said, throwing an expired Gatorade at his brother.

Ronan caught the bottle and the blister pack. "How quickly will they work?"

"Soon enough."

They got walking.

Jiang felt like he knew of a pill that could send you to sleep faster. The thought slipped through his mind like a length of silk, so gentle it was barely there. Whatever it was, it was probably ages ago, folk medicine or worse. Jiang siphoned Lynch's energy to hurry the pills up. It wouldn't be minutes before Lynch needed to sit down.

 

* * *

 

"Ronan," Gansey had said hours before, "Matthew's waiting for us. If you have a way to get us away from here, use it." His voice became steel at the end. How Ronan had loved that voice once, Gansey the general, Gansey the conqueror, Gansey the All-Powerful.

If only Gansey could have made him sleep.

This was a secret.

In Ronan's mind, there was a forest and in that forest there are the most spectacular things.

That was not the secret.

The secret was that this dream place did not exist only in Ronan's mind. The secret was that it was once a real place and the things within it could be made real.

No one other than Declan was supposed to know this. Just like no one other than Declan was supposed to know that the forest fire that raged through Henrietta and Singer's Falls five years ago started when Ronan, in his grief, lost control.

Ronan did not like that Gansey knew this secret. Not because he would not have been happy to share it with him once but because he had no recollection of sharing it with him ever. He had little memory of their history together, only the soul-crushing realization that Adam had chosen Gansey over him.

Still, he took Declan's pill and he escaped into that dream place he once called Cabeswater.

 

* * *

 

There is only destruction.

Dead trunks blackened with scorch marks stand on charred soil. Whereas the forest back home had begun to regrow, there is no sign of new life here. It is a sea of black and white and grey, all bare under a broad, blue sky. Even the air tastes burnt.

Guilt threatens to drag Ronan under. _Nos occidisti, Greywaren_ , the trees accuse.

" _Me paenitet_ ," Ronan says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Wind sweeps through the bare trunks, bringing with it the smell of ash.

" _Accipe hoc_ ," the trees says, " _et vade_."

Ronan accepts the gift and leaves.

 

* * *

 

The trees' gift was a blotof color in the grey world. Tan and immense, fifteen feet by seven and six feet high, it was a vehicle meant for war zones. It was one of the largest things Ronan had ever produced and it had taken no more effort than waking up.

 _Accipe hoc,_  the trees had said, _et vade._

_Et vade._

_Et vade._

"A Humvee," Gansey said, sounding impressed. "Ronan, you marvelous thing, you brought this from your dreams?"

_Me paenitet._


	14. Chapter 14

If Jiang had had any doubts, they were gone now. Ronan Lynch was the Greywaren. Jiang would have recognized that energy signature anywhere, burned as it was into his nose.

The Greywaren had burned the forest down. He had opened the portal to Elphyne in a place where the worlds weren't thin enough to support it, squandering the ley line's energy in the process. The hunters had finished it off when they followed him.

That was what the spirits of the forest had said when Jiang searched for the remnants of the energy source. Declan hadn't just let the hunters try to kill him- he had actively destroyed Jiang's regular source of sustenance.

The Greywaren. It was not a term Jiang knew and, honestly, it wasn't one he cared to know. But he recognized it the second he felt Ronan using. Cypress Point was near enough to the dormant ley line that Ronan could still pull energy from the earth. No one else was able to but Ronan, the very one who had rendered the energy source useless to the rest of them, could. Greywaren.

To the dryads, the word was a curse.

 _Go away_ , they had told Jiang, voices full of ash and smoke, _there are enough things on the verge of death here._

He could have found another ley line. But. Declan had left him for dead. Only a passing rainstorm had saved him, washing the black dog's blood away enough for Jiang to break free of his confines. He had asked Jiang to rely only on the energy source, then he had stolen it from him. He had taken everything human in Jiang and spit upon it, leaving only the monster.

And so a monster Jiang became.

 

* * *

 

"Do you think she was telling the truth?" Gansey asked as Ronan drove the Humvee down the sparse path. "Matthew was taken by these fairies?" He said the word "fairies" as if he could hardly believe it was a word he had to say.

“If anyone has him,” SickSteve said, “it'd be the fae.”

“What would the fae want with Matthew?”

SickSteve looked at Declan. “Yes, what _would_ the fae want with a member of your family?” The sarcasm dripped like acid from his tongue.

A muscle ticked in Declan's jaw. Jiang was too busy drawing on his own arm with a pen he'd found to look up.

“You've dealt with the fae before, haven't you?” SickSteve prodded.

Declan had not. He had been in the room where the dealing was made, had seen how it went down, but he had not dealt with the Fair Folk himself, per se.

He was not going to tell SickSteve this.

Nor was he going to mention the feeling he had, the overwhelming one that meant Joseph Kavinsky, vampire and master manipulator, was not the one pulling the strings.

The fairies in this world were not the new, Disney-style fairies but the old ones. The ones that had teeth like knives and wings so sharp they didn't float on air so much as slice through it. The ones that made every interaction into a transaction. The ones who had their own realm but chose to venture into others.

Niall Lynch had not been a member of the Fair Folk but he had been the rare human to travel into their realm and return. He did eventually die at the hands of one of their members but these things can hardly be helped. Niall Lynch didn't deal fair. The Fair Folk were never not fair.

“I've dealt with everyone before,” Declan replied.

“True but the fae aren't known for kidnapping adults.”

"We'll find out soon enough if they have him." Declan rested his head against the seatback and shut his eyes. "It won't be long before whoever has him notices we're here. They'll reveal themselves and that's when we'll strike."

* * *

 

They drove for hours, the landscape hardly changing. Everything was a shade of grey, Gainsboro, dim, jet, charcoal. There was no white, no black. Only grey.

Declan's internal clock registered the hours and they were many. They would have to stop soon to rest. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since they left Cypress Point. Declan had gone longer without rest but, when he saw the stone cottage, he knew it was an opportunity he could not let slide past.

"Stay in the car," he told Ronan. Gansey and Jiang did not need the warning. The haetae was needed.

They walked towards the cottage.

Declan nodded at the haetae. He swished his tail and loped off to search the woods.

Declan made a sweeping search of the stone cottage. It appeared abandoned, the floor covered in dusty rushes and little else, the roof thatch caved in in places. Some of the stones in the back wall were missing. One such hole had been plugged with mud, long since dried and cracked.

"I don't smell anything recent," the haetae said.

They would camp here for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

SickSteve was absorbed in his phone. From what Ronan could tell, it worked no better than the rest of their, which was to say not at all. Cell reception wasn't the only problem- nothing mechanical worked, not even Gansey's watch.

"Would you like to join us?" Gansey asked SickSteve, who sat at a distance from the fire.

"No."

"You aren't lonely?"

SickSteve leveled him with a harsh gaze. "I can see everything. There's not a damn person among you who isn't a liar. The atrocities between all of you are enough for a hundred lifetimes. So no, I don't want your company."

Gansey left him alone.

Really, Gansey would be best served not talking to any of them. He was the only one even pretending at civility tonight.

Gansey did not often do things that were best for him.

"I know it was hard on you," Gansey said to Ronan. His glasses reflected the flickering light of the fire. "More than the rest of us."

Ronan didn't like where this conversation was going. There was only one "it" Gansey could be talking about.

Since that day, five years ago, Ronan had avoided his former best friend. The easy explanation was he couldn't possibly go back to Monmouth, couldn't sit another day in that pretentious school Gansey so loved without- without-

Something broke in Ronan that day. That was the hard explanation. Declan found him and slapped the pieces together with a hot glue gun. Ronan left before the glue had had a chance to cool. Now he was carrying around a vase with half the pieces missing or glued in wrong and Gansey was trying to pull it apart.

 

* * *

 

 

Declan blew on his hands to cool them. The air further out was icy but it was burning hot here by the fire. Declan wasn't used to sitting by a fire. Salting and burning he had done often, lighter fluid splashed over a corpse and a match to set it ablaze, but those fires were not the type he wanted to spend much time around.

Jiang sat on the other side of the fire, scratching designs into the dirt. So, he hadn't lost that then. There were many things Declan was uncertain of about Jiang but his art was not one of them.

For example, ask Declan where he had met Jiang, and he could not give you a straight answer.

One answer was he had met Jiang on a Sunday, skulking about the ruins of a Henriettan church.

The other was that he had met him on a Wednesday in an empty classroom during study hall.

Declan accepted the duality without question. Neither truth was kinder nor easier to accept. He was an asshole, same as he ever was, same as he'd ever be. Actions speak louder than words and Declan's actions were plenty.

_"I can't keep this thing open much longer, Lynch!"_

Declan closed his eyes. He didn't want to remember. He couldn't make himself stop.

"The haetae and I will take first watch," Declan told Gansey. "Get some sleep while you can. Take Ronan with you."

"You and who?"

"SickSteve." His real name was Stephen Lee. Declan would allow Cheng's man his alias. Gansey would allow Declan his privacy.

They would keep quiet about the fact that neither of them would be sleeping much tonight. Declan had known Gansey for nearly nine years now. Insomnia had plagued the both of them for most of that time. If they were different sorts of people, it would be a joke, a black thing between them, _sleep is for the weak, ha ha._

As it was, Declan had a standing prescription for Rozerem and little interest in letting anyone else know about it. There was nothing in his sleep habits worth telling other people about.

 _Exempli gratia_ , Declan did not dream. He wished he did but he didn't. That was the end of it. He barely slept, almost never without help, and, when he did, he did not dream.

He was not, as his father would put it, a dreamer.

There were worse things to live with.

Like the fallout of not being a dreamer. Or the realization that not being a dreamer was merely his father’s excuse not to care about his disappointment of a son, the one who had inherited everything important save the most important thing of all.

Declan didn't care. He stopped caring a long time ago. Self-preservation, as it were.

He would like to dream, though. It sounded nice. Certainly, he could use more non-medicated sleep. If he had the choice, he would indulge. He didn't. Have the choice.

Instead, most nights, he stayed awake and he remembered.


	15. Chapter 15

Hunters come for you in the dead of the night. Hunters come for you in the light of the day. Hunters come for you whenever they choose, whenever it's easiest, whenever they know they can succeed.

So why was Declan's way so wrong?

He knew his worth. He knew what he was good at, words and seduction and sinful smiles. He could touch a siren's wrist, turn her ways against her, and snap her neck in a single stroke.

The other hunters found it repulsive. There were better ways, cleaner ways, you didn't have to act like your prey.

Declan wanted to ask where they had been the day his father died. What had they done to stop Aurora's passing?

He kept on. His successes were many. He got them the ingredients they wanted. Killers, abusers, and perverts were off the streets.

There were other ways, every hunter he met insisted.

 _My brother doesn't remember three years of his life_ , he countered. _I never met my grandparents._

_Do you want what I'm selling?_

He didn't kill those who didn't harm. He roughed them up, sent a message, told them most weren't so kind.

Mostly, they spit in his face.

"It's a waste," Ashley told him. "They'll just come back to harm someone later. You should eliminate threats before they occur."

"That's a good way to die," he replied.

"Our kind isn't known for their longevity. Declan, you can't make friends with monsters."

"Do I have a choice?"

Ashley knew. It was an open secret among the hunting community: Niall Lynch's youngest were not human. He lay with a nymph, a dryad, and they were the result. That was the story.

The truth, as Ashley knew it, was that Aurora Lynch was something far more strange and wonderful, a figment of Niall's imagination rendered real. Ronan and Matthew had one foot in the door of that unreality.

That was not the whole truth, which was that Declan only ever had one brother, who became a father in childhood and who brought forth another child from his dreams a few years ago, inadvertently populating the world with more of a kind the Council weren't particularly fond of. Declan had a somewhat loose understanding of monsters. One day it might be Ronan before that Council, pleading for the right to let his children live.

Thank God for the witches. The women of Fox Way had done more to secure Opal's safety than even they knew. A hoofed child among witches was no great concern. A satyr amongst humans was.

Orla Sargent received a stipend every month to tell Declan how his niece was doing.

"I could offer you advice," she cooed into the phone. She knew how deep his pockets were. "Money advice, fashion, love." Declan had never been truly loved. He wasn't unlucky in love so much as he is neglected, no one's favorite, there for a good time and nothing more. He had had chances before and he's blown them. Deeper emotions were unnecessary.

At least, there was that line of thinking.

"How is she?"

"Fine. Exhibiting standard psychic traits." The witches of Fox Way insisted on calling themselves psychics. Declan placed no difference in the words. He had no faith in God. He had seen too many holy places reduced to battlegrounds to believe there was any grace left for him. "She misses him."

"They always do."

"Trouble's brewing," Orla told him, free advice. "Old acquaintances will return. Keep your brothers close."

"Just keep Opal safe." Declan didn't have time for a witch's riddle.

"If he doesn't return soon, your brother's daughter is going to become one of us."

The sad part was, Declan didn't think that would be a bad thing.

 

* * *

 

Yes, he left Jiang behind, but what were his options? Leave both of his brothers to an unknown fate? The choice was there and the choice was made and, shockingly, the undead energy sucker lost to the living family.

He had meant to find out what happened to Jiang. But, when he came out of the world of the fae, Matthew had been almost an adult and Ronan had damn near lost his mind. There wasn't time.

And when there was time, the trail had gone cold. It had gone so cold the only certainty was that Jiang had been in that room at one point and was no longer there.

Declan had more pressing things to do than pursue someone whose forgiveness could not be earned. Like teach Matthew how to live in this world. Like run his father's business. Like keep tabs on Ronan.

For all Declan wouldn't admit it, Jiang was a loss that stung even now, years later.

 

* * *

  

"Couldn't find a more discreet place to hide, demon?" Declan asked, stepping closer.

The jiangshi hissed and withdrew from the peach tree bough in Declan's hand.

"Don't hurt me," the creature said, backing itself against a wall. It scrabbled at the wall but there was no way out. "I'll do anything you want."

It had an accent, an unlovely thing, all hard consonants and flat intonation.

This wasn't Declan's usual operating procedure. But this thing had followed him. It had come to Henrietta in the first place, though guessing by its clothes, it was many decades older than the average Aglionby student. Its face looked all of seventeen, even now, when it had reverted to its original, somewhat green form.

"Why would I do that?"

"I can help you," the jiangshi said. "You want to know who's turning people? I can show you."

Declan scoffed. "I already know that."

"I know other things!" The creature was frantic, desperate to preserve its half-life. "Your brother! He's not natural, is he?"

Declan stepped closer. The creature cowered.

"He isn't. He's something else. A magician, a dream-shaper. They say your mother was a nymph but she wasn't, was she? She was something else entirely."

Declan stopped. "Go," he said. "Get out of here. The next time I see you, I won't be so kind."

The jiangshi ran.

 

* * *

 

 

He called himself Jiang.

"Isn't that a little on the nose?" Declan asked and Jiang laughed.

"Would you believe it's my real name?"

Declan watched as the jiangshi stretched. The jiangshi, seeing him watching, grinned.

"Got to keep the joints limber. I was an acrobat once, could fold myself up into a little ball."

Declan continued to stare at him. Perhaps his earlier assessment was wrong and the creature wasn't a jiangshi, after all. He was pale, true, certainly some sort of energy-eater but he moved quickly and talked more than was to be expected.

"What are you doing in Henrietta?"

"Going to school," the creature lied easily.

"That's it?"

"Well, I'm certainly not here for the nightlife."

 

* * *

 

 

Don't fall for your prey. That was a lesson Niall Lynch never taught his sons but should have. If he had, he might not have fallen for a dream and sired one himself.

Dreamer's not a good for what Ronan is but what is? Freak. Inhuman. Magic.

But that wasn't the point. The point was Declan had found a way to do his job that didn't so much involve guns as it did the bedroom. Witches, succubae, spirits of the air- he took them all to his bed and most he gave a choice: do better or die. You would be surprised how many chose the second option.

Ronan called him a whore. Ronan was blind, unable to see the horrors of this world, the things that crept in the shadows, that walked in the dark.

Ronan did not see that he was being pursued, that there were those, given the chance, who would use him.

Jiang shifted just then, bare hips sliding under sheets. It would be so easy to drive a stake through his heart. Harder to cut off his head, though not hard.

Declan wouldn't do it.

Not because he felt any affection for this boy, this beautiful, amazing creature who kept coming back, fully aware as others have not been of the dichotomy of their existence, the nearly inescapable divide between hunter and hunted, but because the chase was not over. There were still things Declan needed to know. Between Jiang's slim thighs were secrets, in his talented mouth was the solution to the Ronan problem.

This Declan told himself as his hand slid up the slight curve of a cool waist, as his lips found Jiang's, as he sucked on a tongue that was cool but very much alive.

"Will you kill me today?" Jiang asked. His arms curled languidly above his head.

"Tomorrow," Declan promised as he slid slowly, oh so slowly, inside.

 

* * *

 

 

"Is this a new tactic?" Declan asked. "Make your victims pity you into giving up their blood?"

Jiang flipped him off weakly. It made Declan's stomach clench.

He had found Jiang out here, in the middle of nowhere, sitting next to his Supra and clutching his eyes. He looked fragile and in need of help. The probability that it wasn't an act was growing by the second.

"I don't drink blood," Jiang protested. It was true: he didn't. Though Declan can't say feeding off someone's _qi_ was much better than sucking blood.

“I can't-“ Jiang said, holding his hands over his eyes. “Can you drive me back to the dorms?”

“You'd trust me to do that?”

“No,” Jiang snapped, “but I don't really have a choice right now, do I?” He ripped his hands away from his face and Declan saw for the first time how clouded over they had become.

“When's the last time you fed?” Declan asked, the words coming out more poisonous than he meant.

“That's none of your business.”

“It is if you go attacking people.”

“I'm not going to attack anyone! I just, urgh, there's a place near the dorms. If you drop me off there, I'll be fine.”

“What kind of place?”

“Also none of your business.”

“I really think it is.”

“I don't know what to call it, alright? An energy source of some kind.”

Jiang knew about the ley line.

 

* * *

 

Declanran a hand over Jiang's worryingly convex stomach. Guilt swept over him, almost as strong as the delicious tingle caused by their contact. At his urging, Jiang had been cutting down on feeding off people, only taking bits and pieces when he was in a crowd, at parties and the like. These were the consequences.

Jiang looked up at him, eyes lazy, uncaring of Declan's intrusion.

"Feed off me," Declan said.

"What?"

"Feed off me. You're too damn skinny."

A smile unfurled across Jiang's beautiful face. "No."

 

* * *

 

“1887.”

“What?”

“That’s when you died, isn’t it? California territory.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Or was it Berkeley in 1967? Portland 1979. You’ve lived more than a few lives, Jiang.”

 

* * *

 

"I was working on the Trans-Continental Railroad. Hard work for a delicate thing. One of the men, he was the son of a priest, he promised to send me home if I gave him everything I had. Only he botched it and here I am."

"Shut up," Declan groaned, throwing an arm over Jiang and pulling him close. "I'm too tired for yourprattling."

"What if it's not prattling?" Jiang asked. He was idly playing with Declan's dark chest hair. "I could be telling the truth."

"You never tell the truth."

"Neither," Jiang said, snuggling up to Declan's chest, "do you."

 

* * *

 

 

That was one life. There was another, far less exciting and yet just as memorable. Or perhaps there was only one life. Perhaps something had fractured within Declan when he had come back, creating false memories seductive in their tentative happiness. Ronan hadn’t returned whole. Why should Declan have been spared?

In this other life, these other sets of memories that were not another life, were, instead the last vestiges of fae machinations, there was still Aglionby. There was still magic. Only Jiang was young and human, and the lines weren't printed so clearly.

It started like this: a question. A favor, really, from an administrator to a student looking to fluff his resume. There was a student whose family had connections and coffers, and who would be oh, so grateful if their son were to graduate on time. The boy had potential and the family promised to put in a good word. There was a potential, the administrator said, excitement evident in his voice, to reach 1.35billionpeople.

What Declan should have said was no. Instead, the words that came out of his mouth were: "Of course,President Child, I would be happy to tutor an underclassman".

He looked like a goddamned hellion. He looked like all of Declan's dreams come true.

He was also terrible at balancing equations.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Lynch, can I ask you a question?"

"What?" Declan sighed. Jiang was flicking his tongue ring between his front teeth. It was unfairly distracting.

"When's the last time you got your dick sucked?"

Declan sighed through his nose. "Can we get back to the text?"

"I bet it was one of your girlfriends. She probably wrinkled her pretty, littlenose. Told you it was demeaning." Jiang flicked his tongue ring in and out. "I wouldn't find it demeaning."

"Study, Jiang."

 

* * *

 

 

Jiang was rolling a piece of candy around in his mouth. It was distracting and he knew it. Declan knew he knew it. Jiang had a goal in mind. Declan was simply not sure what it is.

Make him uncomfortable, at the very least.

Jiang was distracted, though, by being distracting and he wasn't paying much attention to the text. Declan asked him a question to bring him back on track.

Jiang, wonder of wonders, got it right.

It was the same for the next question and the next.

Declan was starting to get pissed off. He didn't get paid to do this. He didn't need to waste two afternoons a week with this hellion.

"Jiang," he said slowly, "you know this material."

Jiang's tongue froze, then started up again. The corners of his mouth quirked.

"Why, then," Declan continued, "are your grades so bad?"

Jiang considered this. Very seriously, he leaned forward and said: "I want to suck your dick, Lynch. For real."

Then he pressed his lips to Declan's and kissed him.

"If you're down, you know where to find me." Then he sauntered away.

"Wait," Declan said, rubbing his stinging lips. "My car's just outside."

Jiang's smile was blinding.

 

* * *

 

 

"So does Ashley know you're fucking me or...?"

"Ashley's a lesbian," Declan said bitterly, "and I'm not marriage material."

Jiang's arms slid off the roof of his car. "The fuck?"

"She's using me to anger her family." It wasn't a particularly difficult thing to parse.

"For real?"

Declan's lip curled. "Yes."

"But you're so-" Jiang made a vague gesture with both hands. "Proper," he settled on. "Let me guess, they're hardcore Protestants."

"What," Declan asked, "is a 'hardcore Protestant'?"

Jiang shrugged. "I'unno. Like, one of those bible thumpers. The guys that dance with snakes?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"

Jiang pursed his lips and leaned forward. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Maybe I'm just trying to get you to tell me something you don't want to."

"Have you ever considered," Declan asked, leaning forward as well, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that I can see right through your bullshit?"

A smile danced on Jiang's beautiful lips. "I can only hope."

 

* * *

 

 

And here was where the memories began to blur. Which memory was which? Was it all an elaborate fantasy of Declan's life, a hope that his life might be normal, that Jiang might be within his grasp?

It all came back to Jiang, no matter how he tried to reconcile it.

Jiang's eyes were what drew him in. Narrow, a deep brown, endlessly tired or amused or just watching. His breathy voice, his tattoos, his cigarettes and pills and alcohol. Declan wanted him before he even realized Jiang was someone he could want.

He recognized a kinship in him, a desire to break free of the confines of familial duty and an inability to do so, a resignation even, to do so.

He should have killed him. He had promised to, when eliminating threats was something he could do without faltering.

He had never meant to do it. He had told Jiang he would but it had been a warning, one he'd set aside once it became clear Jiang was siphoning energy from the line and not from human beings.

And yet he'd nearly done it, hadn't he? He'd allowed hunters to get to Jiang when he asked them to help savewhat was left of his family.

He didn't regret that.

He regretted it every day.

 

* * *

 

 

"You know Henry Cheng?" Declan was surprised.

"He goes here, doesn't he?" Jiang cackled. "Cheng's scared of me. As he should be. His mother fancies herself a shaman."

"A reincarnation," Declansaid, "of the great Queen Seondeok."

Jiang snickered. "Common, right? Queens being reincarnated as Canadian housewives." He reached out his delicate foot and laid cold toes on Declan's thigh.

"And you?"

Jiang didn't pretend to misunderstand. He smiled and brought a hand to his lips, slim fingers against soft curves.

"That isn't reincarnation. More like..."

"Corpse reanimation."

"That. I was poor." Jiang shrugged. "I went away to work. And I didn't survive. Not from the work. I got sick from something. The medicine I could afford didn't work. Or it killed me, who can say. I was very stupid. Try this medicine, they said. It's from the West. In those days, they sent your body home. I wasn't rich. So they hired a priest." Jiang shrugged. "Here I am."

Jiang was a good liar. Declan was still not fooled. Die he did but this way? No.

 

* * *

 

"The line will be woken soon."

Declan scowled. Jiang grinned and tapped his fingers against prominent ribs.

"I'll be healthy again soon. Your time's running up, Mr. President. You won't be able to defeat me once the ley line's awake."

"It would be wise not to underestimate me.”

“When have I ever been wise?” Jiang settled down next to him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Go to the funeral.”

“She was no mother to me. And I would rather spit on my father's grave than lay flowers upon it.”

“I did not say do it for theirsake.”

“Then whose? My own? I won't cry forpeople who never cared for me.”

Jiang set his teeth. “Go to the funeral, Declan. Mourn your lost childhood. Weep for the parentsyour brother lost if that is the only way you can. But weep. Or have you forgotten how monsters are made?”

“Who were you?” Declan shot back. It was a question Jiang had never answered truthfully. He expected Declan to cling to a family that had never cared for him, only placed him beside his more special brother and measured the distance in between.

"Go to the funeral," Jiang told him. "Before you regret it."

Declan went but he did not mourn the people whoraised him. He comforted Ronan and he said his piece as a dutiful son,and he went back that night, cut off his father's head, drove an iron stake through his heart, and filled his coffin with salt.

Aurora's grave he left untouched.

It was not, after all, like dreams could come back from the dead.

 

* * *

 

There was one more memory. Its veracity was unquestionable, for it was part of an event that ended an era.

"What are you _doing_?" Declan roared. Jiang was immobile, locked into a horrible crouched position, surrounded by a ring of black dog's blood. From his neck,slivers of wood, long, cruel-looking planks as thick as rulers, protruded.

Declan couldbarely breathe around the heart-shaped organ in his throat.

"Hmm?" Chapman asked. His rheumy eyes and wormy lips had always disgusted Declan. "Oh, we found that lurking nearby."

"And you decided to capture him for what? Shits and giggles?"

Chapman frowned."Look at it, Lynch. We can't let it roam free."

"He's not going to hurt anyone."

Chapman's guffaw was disbelieving. "Are you sure about that? Its kind feeds off humans. It's a parasite. We let it go, it will only prey on people."

Jiang's eyes marked his every move. Declan couldn't look at him, at the blood, at the wood in his neck, the wood jammed under his nails. _Fight_ , he thought. _You're stronger than this. The ley line is right under you._

The swirling vortex of the portal beckoned. How had Ronan opened it? More importantly, where had he gone?

There wasa choice here, Jiang or Ronan. Declan had already broken so many rules with Jiang but this, this was not an arbitrary one. Ronan was to be the hero, not the spear. Niall Lynch's dying and living wish was to see Ronanthrive, notstoop to becoming just a tool.

The spear still had to exist. The only way to make a weapon's son a hero wasto lay a path...orblaze a trail. Had he ever meant it to, the day had never come when Niall Lynch chose to keep himself covered. Nor did he teach his heir to do so.

Instead, he took an ordinary sword, affixedit to a pole, andtold it to cut down everything in the spear's path. Make it so the spear was never tested,for in its testing, its greater efficacy wouldbe seen, and the repurposed sword would be cast aside.

There was a choice here: be a glaive or let the spear be uncovered. Save Ronan or save Jiang.

It was no choice. Declan knewwhat was required of him

There wouldbe time for resentment another day.

"I can't keep this thing open much longer, Lynch!" O'Leary yelled, the strain evident in his cracking voice and shaking arms. The portal was fluctuating in front of him. Soon, no matter what O'Learydid, it wouldclose in on itself. Ronan might be lost forever. The spear could be uncovered. "If you're going through, it needs to be now!"

Declan looked back at Jiang one last time, the betrayal and resignation there, and leaped into the portal.

 

* * *

 

And now Jiang was here, whole and physically unharmed. Declan wanted to go to him, to fall asleep wrapped around him but he didn't dare. So he agreed to keep watch with the haetae while Jiang and the others slept. Because- and Declan was sure of this- there was a reason Jiang had been left behind. He and Ronan were vulnerable out here, Gansey more so. Greywaren and jiangshi and human, they didn't belong here. The haetae had no designs on protecting them: he had already led them to a gumiho's den. Declan would not leave anyone under his watch.

But that didn't mean he didn't want to wrap an arm around Jiang and pull him against his chest and reassure himself that Jiang was real, that he wasn't a pile of ash in a forest in the valley or bones left to rot in a shallow grave. That didn't mean he didn't want to slide a hand up Jiang's flat stomach or lay a kiss to the scrollwork on his neck. That didn't mean he didn't want toslip inside him and say  _I found you, finally, and I am_ never _going to lose you again_.


	16. Chapter 16

It poured that night. The rain pounded against the thatch roof. Water soaked through, trickling down to drip in slow leaks onto the dirt floor.

Stephen Lee slept fitfully.

He dreamed of Donghyun. Cheng called him Lee-Squared, though that was not his name. Cheng had names for both of them and for Henry Broadway. The names meant nothing, he said. Stephen prayed they meant everything.

Oneday, maybe twothey had passed in Elphyne. It must be more on the outside. Surely, Donghyun missed him.

Stephen prayed Donghyun missed him.

In his dream, they are at home. Not Donghyun's home but another that is unspeakably _theirs_. It is warm there, unlike this bitterly cold place. Donghyun is smiling, the light hazy around him. He looks soft and inviting, his eyes focused on Stephen and Stephen alone. When he raises his glass to his lips, there is a glitter of gold. On Stephen's finger is an answering sheen. Donghyun's smile grows. He says something but Stephen can't hear it. He leans in, only for the dream to begin dissolving at the edges. Donghyun fades.

"No!" Stephen says, reaching out. The dissolution is nearly complete. "Donghyun, please!"

" _Yeobo_ ," Donghyun saysand then he is gone

Stephen woke and he was nothing but Donghyun's dutiful servant oncemore.


	17. Chapter 17

Jiang emerged from the abandoned cottage they had spent the night in to greet a grey dawn. Declan was sitting in front of the fire, eating breakfast. The other three weren't up. Jiang had had to step over the xiezhi, sprawled out to all his Great Dane-like size, on his way out.

"Morning," he said.

Declan grunted back. Charming.

Jiang sat down next to him. Declan looked dead on his feet. His energy levels were still low, then.

"Why haven't you tried to leave?" Declan asked around a mouthful of granola bar. Doubly charming.

"Eh." _Because you're going to blow a hole in each of my friends' heads the second you find them._ "Don't really feel like it. This is fine."

"It shouldn't be 'fine.'"

Jiang laughed without mirth. "I've had a long time to come to terms with everything that's happened to me. I wouldn't still be here if I couldn't cope."

Declan's face said he didn't want Jiang to have to cope.

 _Do something_ , Jiang wanted to scream at him. _Be honest about this. You care about me, we both know it, why won't you make a move?_

But Jiang knew, for all his own damage, Declan had plenty of his own. There was no easy fix for either of them.

The others weren't up yet, not that Jiang really cared what they thought. Yesterday, he had been welcome. Today, he surely would be as well.

He kissed Declan. He grabbed a handful of his shirt, tugged Declan down to meet him, and kissed him until Declan kissed back.

In the backseat of the Humvee, Declan's hands trembled as they touched Jiang's face, fingers tracing Jiang's jawline. Jiang was so ready for Declan to take charge, he didn't even push back when Declan cradled his face in his hands and kissed him. Declan sucked on Jiang's tongue, tugging on the piercing slightly. Jiang didn't give the slightest hesitation and yet the trembling didn't stop.

 _What happened to you?_ Jiang wondered. There had been no trembling the other night, not when they thought they would walk away and never look back. _You were so strong once._

He couldn't entertain the thought that it was him, that this morning meant anything more than the others. The tracker in his neck spoke to the consequences of that hope.

Still, sex was easy. It was something they’re both good at, something that could be emotionless or impossibly deep as the situation called for it.

He was so handsome. Declan had grown up, settled into his skin more.

He looked like he could crack at any second.

 _Who did this?_ Jiang thought but didn't say. _It should be me who looks like this, not you._

Last time there had been too much alcohol in Jiang's system to appreciate this. The vast expanses of skin, the dark hair, the corded muscles. Declan had always been gorgeous. Now he teetered on the edge of dangerous, almost but not quite a good copy of his father.

Jiang had met the man once, despised him from the very first word, the disdain in his eyes as he gazed upon his eldest. Declan was a poor copy of that monster.

Declan slid into him and it shouldn't feel like this, like coming home, but it did. Declan was seventeen when they met and nineteen when they parted and five years should be nothing to Jiang but it was everything.

Declan grunted as he pulled out and slammed back in like he meant to break Jiang. He couldn't, of course, not like this.

Jiang dug his nails into Declan's back. He knew the way Declan's MO, fuck 'em and kill 'em, and he knew, too, that he'd spent five years fearing (hoping) Declan would do just that. Jiang was so tired of a life without meaningful human contact. Declan skewered his heart once, let him do it again and be the last.

Or let him revive it.

Let this mean something, let Declan come back to him, let him remember that he sought Jiang out and not the other way around. Let there be affection behind that brutal mask. Let it _be_ a mask.

Cheek resting against Declan's chest, Jiang played with Declan's thick, dark chest hair. He needed this to mean something.

Anything.

 

* * *

 

Ronan was late to wake. He spent several moments paralyzed, terror entering his skull with every long moment he found he couldn't move. Matthew was missing. Kavinsky took him. He didn't have time to be frozen in sleep.

He brushed flower petals in the shape of knives off his chest. More lay in a pile around him.

Ronan left them and headed out the shack to find a place to piss.

After marking a suitable tree, Ronan made his way to the fire. SickSteve (Ronan still refused to believe he actually went by that name) was sitting by it, nursing a bottle of water. They had nothing to cook, only what Declan brought to drink. In this strange place, Ronan didn't trust himself to bring anything healthy out of his dreams.

Speaking of which- Ronan glanced at the Humvee. It would protect them from a lot. would it be enough?

He shouldn't have left Gansey in the shack alone.

Ronan frowned. The Humvee was moving. Rocking, shaking.

Ronan looked around, counting who was in attendance. When his count came up short, he began to glower. The Humvee continued to rock.

Ronan could imagine what was going on. The panting, the hot slide of skin against skin, hands fumbling at zippers.

Then the Humvee stopped.

The door opened. As Ronan watched, Declan emerged and offers a hand to the person behind him. He kissed the back of their hand as they emerged, one foot on the step, an uncharacteristic smile on their lips.

Ronan was no stranger to Declan's proclivities. Even this scene wasn't new.

It was the other player who was.

Ronan had never liked his brother's cheating. He'd never understood it, how someone could disrespect a relationship like that. With Ronan, you were either all in or you were out.

For all his disapproval, Ronan never thought Declan was so sleazy.

Oh, he was the sleazemaster, butter smooth politician, lies dripping out of his mouth, but Ronan at least thought he got to _know_ his girlfriends before he bedded them. Not this.

Jiang was the most hypocritical thing Declan has ever done. And yes that was a pun.

Ronan couldn't say how much of his life was about pissing Declan off but when he was sixteen he shelled out a couple hundred dollars to get his back covered in ink. It was a beautifully reckless move that Ronan did not regret and in fact used every opportunity to show off, precisely for the fact that Declan found tattoos unprofessional.

And here Declan, serial monogamist, man-whore Declan, was sleeping with a tatted up, Asian stoner. Who was also a man.

Yet somehow it was a problem when Ronan held hands with Adam Parrish. Somehow it was an issue when Ronan experimented with drugs. Somehow it was cause for fucking concern when Ronan started hanging out with Kavinsky.

(What? Ronan had been hanging out with Kavinsky for a couple of months. Declan only showed up two days ago with Matthew. And look what Kavinsky did.)

Ronan shook his head. Then he stomped towards to the Humvee. It took everything he has not to punch his brother in the face.

"We need to talk," he told Declan, "you fucking _dick_."

 

* * *

 

“You're sleeping with him? Matthew's been kidnapped and you're over here fucking the enemy?”

Declan grabbed Ronan by the neck and slammed him against the side of the Humvee.

“Listen here, little brother, because I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. I will go about this my way. If sex will help me achieve my ends, then so be it.”

Ronan's face was turning purple. Impressive control. Declan let him go.

“Whore,” Ronan gasped. “Fucking _slut_.”

Declan didn't rise to the bait. Where would it get him? Ronan was hardly the first to call him that.

His body count spoke for itself.

“And you gave me shit when I came out. Guess Asian fixations don't count.”

“Don't call him that, you racist fucking deadbeat. My issue was with your white trash friend and you know it.”

“Man-whore,” Ronan sneered.

Jiang looked at him with the barest trace of interest. Declan, however, was furious.

The first blow sent a Lynch brother staggering.

"First of all,” Declan said, wiping his bleeding lip with the back of his hand, “you fucking amnesiac, I've known him for seven years. In fact, you knew him before I did so don't tell me this is casual."

"If you've known him for seven years, why have I never met him before?" Ronan's fist smacked into his brother.

Declan took the blow on the chin. His mouth remained unaffected. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Am-ne-si-ac."

"I guess, I must be since I don't remember you fucking any _men_ in high school."

Jiang started going through Declan's bag. Mainly, he was looking for something to stop the bleeding and hopefully something with caffeine. Declan was running high on adrenaline now but Jiang knew how much he took and D was going to be dropping soon if he didn't cool it.

An elbow met a face. Fists continued to fly. The brothers were equally matched or would be if Declan weren't functioning on half power.

Declan's fist lowered. “Yes, sorry, Ronan, for not telling you every aspect of my personal life. We're so close, you and I.”

“You gave me so much shit about Adam!”

“The only _comment_ I ever made was how creepy your little trailer trash friend was.”

“As if Jiang's any better!”

“Hey, now,” Jiang interjected. Someone had to defend his honor and, clearly, it wasn't Declan.

“Stay out of it,” the brothers said, turning on him.

“Yeah, no.”

"Gentlemen," Gansey said.

"You butt out of this, too, Gansey," Ronan replied. "This is between me and my _slut_ of a brother."

Declan's eyes hardened. "I'm not the one with _children_."

"Are you sure about that?"

Jiang snorted. "I’d say so," he said, when Declan and Ronan turned to look at him, "since pretty much every woman he's ever slept with went kaput the next day." He dragged his thumb across his throat in emphasis.

Declan groaned.

"It had to come out sometime." Jiang was unsympathetic. He was a fucking excellent catch, thank you very much. "Your brother's a hunter." Ronan didn't get it. "He tracks supernatural creatures down and he kills them. Shifters, witches, vampires, that sort of thing. Most hunters prefer fast and messy. D's, how should I put it, more _subtle_."

Ronan's face was blank. From what Jiang knew, Niall Lynch, fucker that he was, had always traded in fantastical items. Declan was the arbiter of his will. In practice, that meant Niall found or made items and Declan moved the surplus along. Surely, this was not Ronan's first brush with the supernatural.

"Are you that naive? Didn't you ever wonder why you'd see most of those women once and never again?"

Ronan's face said it all: he had never wondered. That would have meant he paid actual attention to Declan's revolving door of bedmates.

"I don't know you," he said to Jiang.

Jiang shrugged. "We went to the same high school. We used to race. You were pretty good."

Ronan didn't answer. His face had closed off. Declan had been telling the truth- he didn't remember.

 

* * *

 

The argument over, the five of them set out. Rain sluiced down the Humvee's windows and pattered along the roof. The world outside turned to water and mud.

Not a mile up the road, the Humvee got stuck. The wheels had dug into feet of fresh mud, the fender nearly buried in the ground. Not even with all of their combined strength could they free it.

"So dream a new one," SickSteve said, shaking rainwater and muck from his scales.

There were no more sleeping pills.

"I could make you sleep," Jiang offered.

"Can you make me dream?"

Jiang shrugged

Thus, they walked.

Or trudged, more like it. None of them had come prepared for mile long slogs through muck and grime and it wasn't long before they were drenched, miserable, and tired.

"Do you see that?" Gansey asked Ronan after they'd been on the road what felt like twenty minutes. The rain had eased off some, which made the mud less slippery and more apt to hold onto shoes and never let go.

"What?"

"That fox. It's been following us."

Ronan didn't see anything.

He wasn't interested in looking, either. He didn't want to provide Gansey with any sort of diversion from the tedium that was walking down this muddy stretch of road. Gansey was not forgiven simply because he pretended he was.

If only Adam had come instead.

"There," Gansey said sometime later, "that bit of red. You really don't see it?"

Even later: "Ronan, it's making faces at us."

"Foxes can't make faces."

"I am telling you what I'm seeing."

"Hey," Ronan called up ahead to whoever would answer, SickSteve or Declan or even Jiang if the other two had suddenly suffered a horrible accident and gone completely mute, "Gansey's getting loopy. Can we take a break?"

"I am feeling perfectly alright," Gansey protested. Ronan didn't answer.

Gansey had the sense not to mention the fox again.

That night or midday or morning, it was always grey and cold in this place, they camped some distance from the road. It didn't feel as if they've traveled that far. Without the odometer, no one could be certain they had. Gansey's watch didn't work nor anyone's phone. The landscape had hardly varied: drying mud and trees as far as the eye could see.

It was only hunger and their aching muscles that made them stop.

"Are you tired now?" Jiang asked Ronan. "Because I am. Tired of walking, that is."

"Piss up a rope."

Jiang went to bother Declan, which only worsened Ronan's mood.

He didn't remember Jiang. But he could see now that Jiang remembered him. That pissed him off.

"We'll find him," Gansey said, laying a hand on Ronan's shoulder.

"I need to be alone right now," Ronan said.

He strode through the grass. Here and there were strange trees- pines whose trunks curved this way and that, crepe myrtles in bloom though it was fall, trees with fan-like, yellow leaves whose fruit produced a sulphurous odor where it lay on the ground. None of it was familiar.

It wasn't familiar he was looking for.

There had been a forest once, very different from this one. Ronan didn't remember much but he had liked it, considered it special. Named it, even. _Cabeswater_. Five years ago, a fire burned it down.

Forests were supposed to rebuild themselves. It wasn't good for them to avoid fire for long. But this was not a small, contained wildfire. This was an all-consuming conflagration, flames destroying everything in their path, leaving scored trunks and charred ground.

Ronan had always felt responsible. He'd considered the possibility _he_ set that fire, that the forest turned to nothing because of him. He wasn't an arsonist. Still, the guilt lingered. In his dreams, most of all.

This forest was nothing like that one. It was younger, the trees different. The soil was sandy. There were no oyster shells.

(Oyster shells? Sometimes Ronan's imagination injected the strangest things into his fragmented memories. What would oyster shells be doing in the valley?)

Now here was something to make his heart ache.

An oak tree, large and impressive. It must be hundreds of years old, judging by the thickness of the trunk.

Ronan skimmed a hand over the bark of an oak, hearing the crunch of acorns under his feet. A branch swayed overhead, a squirrel darting across it. The grass underfoot was patchy and sparse, the soil sandy. Everything about the scene was utterly natural.

Ronan climbed the trunk of that massive oak easily and sat in the great cleft formed by two branches spreading, one right, one left, the trunk sloping upwards. The bark was rough and deeply scored. Small, dried leaves and twigs had collected in the cleft. Ronan ran some of these through his hand to calm himself.

Despite himself, he dozed off.

 

* * *

 

A woman with long, curly, blonde hair is walking away from him.

"Mom?" Ronan asks. The woman turns. The trees sway behind her and Ronan can see that these are not the trees of the forest he fell asleep in. They are the trees of home.

"Ronan," Aurora says, her voice soft and musical. She reaches a hand out and touches the peeling bark of a birch. Her nails brush against the bared tree trunk. "This is such a nice place, isn't it?"

"You're dead," Ronan says, his throat tightening around the words.

"I suppose I am." Aurora leaves go of the birch and walks towards her son. "But isn't your friend Noah?"

Aurora never met Noah. She died six years ago, the same night her husband did, when intruders broke in and slaughtered them in their bed. Ronan didn't meet Noah until weeks after.

"You're not real," Ronan says, backing up.

"Of course I am, silly." She taps his nose. "I'm as real as you are."

He has to get out of here. He has to wake up.

Aurora disappears.

"What a treat this is," Kavinsky says, only it isn't Kavinsky. This vision is younger than the man Ronan knows, his hair gelled, his clothes slightly outdated. The glittering chain around his neck and the sunglasses are all that remain the same.

"What are you doing here?" Ronan asks. Kavinsky smiles. For a moment, Ronan glimpses blood and tortured flesh and splintered bone. Then, just as quickly, Kavinsky is whole again. Ronan's throat closes. "You're dead, aren't you?"

"Bingo. Knew you weren't just a pretty face."

"Where's Matthew?"

"Who?"

"My brother. He went missing the same day you did."

"Huh," Kavinsky says, scratching his nose. "No idea."

Ronan lets a long breath out. "Jiang thinks you took him."

"Jiang's an idiot. And a traitor."

"I trust him more than I trust you."

"Stupid move."

"Where's Matthew, K?"

Kavinsky ignores him. He sits down on the grass, arms braced behind him, one leg bent. He turnes his face to the sun. "Is this what it was always like for you? So calm and peaceful?"

It must have been ages since Kavinsky spent time in the sun. Ronan sits down next to him.

"Do you remember how we met, Lynch?" Kavinsky asks, still basking in the sunlight. His fingers dig into the soft dirt. The smell of sun-warmed grass fills the air.

"You were having a party. I just wanted a drink."

Kavinsky's grin falters, then widens. It looks nothing like a real smile. "Before that."

"I don't remember."

Kavinsky turns. He reaches out and touches Ronan's tattoo. "Yes, you do."

Something about that touch, the tattoo, and Kavinsky's wrong-yet-right face causes Ronan's heart to race and his throat to dry from the inside out.

"There is no before."

"Yeah, there is. Does this help?" Flames lick up the sides of Kavinsky's face, which blister and turn red. There is the snap and crackle of burning flesh. Quieter, but discernably there, is the roar of a crowd and Ronan's own voice saying, "Come down, you bastard!"

Words he never said. A life he never lived.

"Stop it."

This grin is real. "I hope you have the same reaction when you do remember." Kavinsky places his hand flat on Ronan's chest and pushes. "Time to wake up, princess."

 

* * *

 

When he woke, it was to an animal licking his face. Ronan jerked back and the animal skittered away down the left branch. There it sat and stared at him with dark eyes. Ronan froze. The fox blinked and didn't move.

"Shoo," Ronan said. "Get away."

The fox, whose tail was strangely puffed and easily ten times the size of a normal fox's tail, cocked its head.

"I mean it. Get out of here."

The fox hopped to the ground, then turned to peer at Ronan.

"Go."

The fox made a soft yip and turned its head in the direction Ronan came. It yipped again, this time more insistently.

"He wants you go to him."

Ronan jumped and swore. On the topmost branch, where there had been no one before, was now a man with tanned skin and black hair raised to a peak in the center of his head.

"Who are you?" Ronan demanded.

The man jumped easily from his branch and landed in a silent crouch next to the fox.

"You don't know me," he said in an accent Ronan classified as "vaguely Asian", "but I am friend of the friend. You are not safe here. You," he said more pointedly, "are not safe alone."

The fox yipped.

"Come. You friends is waiting for you."

 

* * *

 

"Ronan!" Gansey exclaimed, "thank God they found you!"

"No 'God' about it," SickSteve muttered. "Ryang, where are your bowls? I can't find anything in here."

"Here" being a large, windowless home carved out of a mountainside. On the outside, it was dreary and awful, and not altogether different from the surrounding countryside. Inside, it looked like a full-page spread in Better Homes and Gardens, complete with hardwood floors, thick rugs, and black-and-white photographs on the walls.

"You've been in a loop for several days now," the fox informed Ronan. Upon reaching the home, it had transformed into a delicate-looking man of average height with artfully shaved black hair, keen eyes, and large, fox-like ears. Unlike his companion, he spoke with no discernable accent. "Normally, we don't interfere with other people's snares but Steve's an old friend."

"Could have interfered a little sooner," SickSteve said.

"I'd rather not bring whatever nasty creature is responsible down on our heads," the fox- Ryang- replied. "What were you even doing on that road? You should never take the actual road."

"We were doing fine till we had to go on foot." SickSteve's definition of fine didn't match anyone else's by the looks they gave him, Gansey excluded. "Our great leader himself told me to bring them here. You were supposed to be at Litchfield."

Ryang's left ear twitched. "My aunt and I are...having a difference of opinion."

"She says you stopped eating human."

"I did."

"How's that working out for you?"

Ryang's companion said something in a language Ronan neither understood nor recognized. Korean, he assumed.

SickSteve snorted. "Whatever. These humans are special."

The nameless man peered at Ronan, Gansey, and Declan in turn. "Why?"

"These two," SickSteve said, pointing at Ronan and Declan, "escaped the fae before. And that one," he said, pointing at Gansey, "is _Gansey_."

The stress he put on the name was tangible. Ryang placed his chin in hand. His friend's mouth dropped into a great 'o'. SickSteve smirked.

Ronan was starting to like SickSteve, if only because he was an absolute asshole.

"Gansey?" Ryang asked. "Cheng's Gansey?"

"That's the one." SickSteve finished the last of his tea and refilled the cup. "Anyone want more?" he asked, waving the teapot around.

"You could have told us sooner."

"Yeah? You could have saved my ass sooner. Let's call it even. Now, Cheng wants you to help them so chop chop. By the way, Koh, you're looking much healthier than the last time I saw you."

Koh, as the nameless man seemed to be called, flushed. He and SickSteve began speaking in animated Korean.

"We have plenty of hot water," Ryang told Ronan, "if you'd like to take a bath."

It came to Ronan's attention that Declan was freshly shaved and Gansey's hair was still wet.

"We also have deodorant."

"He's saying you smell," SickSteve clarified, making the switch from Korean to English easily.

"I got that."

 

* * *

 

When Ronan emerged from the bathroom, skin still pink from his bath, SickSteve was starting lunch. Within minutes, he had water boiling and meat sizzling on the stove.

"Sorry," Ryang said as SickSteve dished food out for everyone except Jiang. "We don't really eat vegetables."

"It's not a problem," Gansey said quickly. Ronan rolled his eyes.

"I'm assuming you don't want rice," SickSteve said to Declan in a surprisingly amiable tone. "It tends to have unpleasant side effects." He smirked at Jiang, who was engaging in a half-assed staring contest with Koh.

Declan glowered.

Still in a good mood, SickSteve settled his long legs into a chair across from Ryang. "It's a nice place you've got here. Wish I would have known you'd moved. When we passed by your aunt's place," he said in between bites of pork and rice, "she tried to eat the humans."

Ryang didn't seem affronted by this. "Not many humans come this way nowadays."

Gansey coughed politely. "Are you planning on eating us?"

"No," Ryang said. He smiled unreassuringly. "I'm trying to cut back on human flesh."

"Ryang is trying to become human," SickSteve said brusquely. "I see those thousand days of not eating liver didn't work." He nodded at Ryang's ears. Ryang's face turned pink.

"Not for lack of trying."

" _Yeouiju_ aren't easy to find."

"You and I both know the fae stronghold is built on the ruins of a _ryong_ 's palace. What if I can find one among the hoard?"

"What if you can't? Besides, do you really want to become human? What will happen to Koh if you do?"

"I'll become human, too," Koh piped up.

SickSteve snorted. "You'd hate it. Humans are weak. They have no natural defenses. You'd be a sitting duck."

"Does L2 know you think so highly of him?"

"Donghyun is different," SickSteve says gruffly, crossing his arms.

"How _is_ Lee-Squared these days?" Ryang asked. "Round, I take it?"

Koh stifled a giggle.

SickSteve's grin was wolfish. "Very."

"Yeouiju..." Gansey said. "You wouldn't happen to be talking about the cintamani would you?"

Ronan groaned internally. They weren't kids anymore.

"Excuse you," SickSteve said.

Ryang cocked his head, fox ears alert and facing forward. "You know of it?"

"It's the Holy Grail of Buddhism."

"Or the Holy Grail is the yeouiju of Christianity," SickSteve muttered to Koh's vigorous agreement. “You know, since it’s older.”

"Go on," Ryang told Gansey.

"The Philosopher's Stone, cintamani, _lapis exillis_ , the Holy Grail, all of these have something in common: they can create anything."

Gansey had spent much of his youth searching for just such a thing. When he was seventeen, he grew tired of this fool's errand and turned to more common pursuits. Or so they said.

People who pushed harder found that Gansey's search stopped when a rash of murders rocked the Shenandoah Valley. They assumed he had grown up fast as a result, understood that the Holy Grail was a myth and abandoned his search.

They didn't know he'd found what he was looking for a year earlier.

In point of fact, Gansey hadn't known he'd found it. He did realize he had found magic in Henrietta, that sleepy little town that spoke to him. He had strange dreams there, wisps of déjà vu, always with the feeling that everything was so familiar, that this was where he was meant to be.

Ronan Lynch was a Holy Grail.

You must understand, the origin of the Grail was only part of its allure. The other was its power.

Gansey had two explanations, should anyone ask. One was the far more fascinating and dazzling story of a stone of great power. The other was about a meteorite. Ronan and Adam had been caught up in this foolishness, until that day.

The day Ronan found Noah.

You'd think it wouldn't be as bad. Ronan had seen a dead body before, had found his father's, had been at his parents’ funeral. It was the familiarity that did him in.

Had Gansey not realized what he had found? After all these years, was that why he wanted Ronan back?

Ronan had thought earlier that Gansey had known. But maybe he hadn't. Maybe he was still searching.

It was something to think about.

"I know where the yeouiju is," Ryang said. "If you bring it to me, I will help you find your brother."

"Why would we waste our time looking for your stupid stone?" Ronan snapped. "This is a waste of time." He stood up. "Declan, we need to go."

Ryang’s eyes gleamed. "If you want to get your brother back, you'll need my help. Your brother is in the hands of the fae. Do you think you can rescue him alone?"

"We can try," Ronan said before storming out of the cave.


	18. Chapter 18

The crowd of fae milled about uneasily.

No one had heard from or seen Lord Colin in several days. And the queen had just called an audience.

It was not Lord Colin the fae feared for. It was themselves. If this gathering was to inform them that Lord Colin had been found mysteriously deceased, as had happened with Lady Piper's last few consorts, Lady Piper would be selecting her new king today.

"Daughter," Laumonier said.

"What?" Piper snarled, her pretty features contorted into anything but. Her fathers were not in her favor today.

"You have a visitor."

The crowd parted, wings fluttering nervously, to let the senior of the queen's magicians past.

Neeve was a fearful thing. A human and a witch, she knew their ways and they did not know hers.

"Piper," Neeve said, ducking an insolent bow.

Piper sneered.

Neeve went to her side.

"Whelk is up to something, my queen," she said.

"When is he not?" Piper asked, eyes scanning her subjects. They were uneasy. Good. "Why is this time any different?"

"There are strangers in our lands as well. Nightwalkers. Changelings."

"Why are you telling me this? Changelings are the lifeblood of our people." The crowd's mood was worsening the longer she spoke to Neeve. They had never trusted the witch. Humans were not meant to wield as much power as the fae. Piper liked keeping them on their toes.

"This changeling left and came back."

"So he was seduced by our ways. We welcome him."

"I fear, my queen, things aren't that simple. Whelk brought him back. He is harboring this changeling."

"And the nightwalkers?"

"I felt it prudent you see them."

That was almost certainly not true.

Piper looked at Neeve from the corner of her eye. "What use are they to me? Vampires cannot survive long here. The light will surely destroy them."

"They are being followed," Neeve said, "by Niall Lynch's sons."

 

* * *

 

"I can't do it, milady," the necromancer said.

"You can't revive him." Piper snorted. "What kind of necromancer are you?"

The man winced. "Revival is a possibility. You simply wouldn't, ah, enjoythe results."

She dismissed him.

Piper paced up and down her bedroom. It wouldn't be correct to say she felt _bad_ about Colin but she hadn't meant to kill him, merely to frighten. He had been intelligent, attractive, human. All things important in a bedmate.

Now he was dead.

Piper laid a hand on the glass covering Colin's face. Neeve's spells could only keep him intact for so long. Soon he would begin to rot and even Piper's glamour wouldn't be able to cover the smell.

There was only one option left. For that, she needed the dragon's jewel.


	19. Chapter 19

**2011**

 

Jiang poked at the soil. There was no crackle of energy, no thrum of power. He'd be better off stealing from a power line or hanging out by the generators.

All in all, it felt like being put on a diet. Nothing filled him up, there was a persistent ache in his stomach and a stiffness in his joints.

He could go back to humans if he didn't mind a pack of hunters descending on the house.

Jiang swallowed a pill. Hunger was nothing to him.

It wasn't like it could kill him.

 

* * *

 

"You shouldn't do that," the yuan gui said. It appeared as seemingly suddenly as always. Only Jiang's slow eyes took in the flickering, the whisper that the ghost had not so much appeared as always been.

"And why not?" Jiang asked as he uprooted the diseased bush whose roots were choking the energy source. He needed energy. If he couldn't take it from humans, he'd take it where he could.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I'm not hurting things, am I?" Jiang could feel the energy flowing underground, bare inches of soil separating him from it. If he could pull up the roots, he could strengthen it and take enough for himself.

"No," the yuan gui admitted, "but you aren't helping. Someone's coming. The ley line will be repaired soon."

"Great. That doesn't help me today." Jiang continued digging.

"You should find another source. This one is unpredictable."

"That's nice. You got any more advice for me or you gonna fuck off now? No offense but I'm gonna stay right here and keep doing what I'm doing."

The yuan gui looked conflicted. "You shouldn't mess with things you don't understand."

"If everyone did that, humans still wouldn't know how to make fire."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." The yuan gui disappeared.

Jiang laughed. Then he winced and clutched at his stomach. It had been far too long since he'd had a full meal. He continued digging.

What harm could the ley line cause him? He was already dead.


	20. Chapter 20

"That was stupid," Jiang said, huffing to keep up as they made their way down the hill. "The fox could have helped us."

"No," Ronan said. "He wanted us to do shit for him. There's a difference."

"You don't think it's possible helping him would have helped us? Not everyone's just gonna help you out of the goodness of their hearts."

Ronan cast a withering look in his direction. How could Jiang talk to him so calmly, when just a few hours ago, Ronan had caught him fucking Declan? Didn't he have any shame?

Who even was this guy? He was part of Kavinsky's inner circle but Ronan had rarely even noticed his presence. His Supra was away more often than it was at the house. The others had spoken of him as a member of the group and yet he had almost never appeared. According to Jiang, they used to race. Ronan would have remembered him if that were true. As much as he tried, there was nothing there, not a single bit of recognition.

_"I've known him for seven years. In fact, you knew him before I did so don't tell me this is casual."_

Declan had to be lying. This had to be something else, some joke at Ronan's expense. Declan couldn't be- he couldn't- Ronan knew his brother better than that.

Even in his thoughts he could barely stand to say it.

Gay. Queer. _Homosexual_. Declan couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

Declan had always been the boring one, his path in life blatantly obvious. He was going to get a nice office job and a wife and exactly two kids, one boy and one girl. He'd summer in Myrtle Beach and spend his winters at home in DC. Ronan couldn't allow him to be anything else.

Because it he was, it meant that he had left Ronan to grow up completely alone.

Declan could have been there for his brother. Instead, he had kept his secret and let Ronan agonize over who and what he was. Ronan had to wait until he was fourteen to meet Noah and finally begin to understand.

It had gone unspoken between them, Ronan's interest in men and Noah's interest in Whelk. Noah had no problem with, either, was perfectly content to blab on about guys and girls and anything around or between or above. He idolized Whelk and he adored Ronan and he was blatantly, openly polysexual. It was Ronan who denied words to these absolute truths.

And why shouldn't he? Noah's openness hadn't saved him, had, if anything, brought on his end.

Noah was always curiously absent when these thoughts crossed Ronan's mind. Trust the dead to avoid uncomfortable truths.

"So what's the plan now, storm the fae palace?"

"If I have to."

Jiang muttered something about foolhardy Lynches and not asking for help. With the kind of help Ryang was offering, Ronan could do without.

 

* * *

 

They spent the next few hours walking and came no closer to ending their search. SickSteve announced that they would reach the fae lands by morning. For now, they needed rest.

They camped in the open, tentless with nothing but a fire and what little sustenance was left in Declan's bag.

Ronan knew he had to gather his strength for the coming rescue. How he wished, though, that he could charge into the fae's midst and demand Matthew back.

There was only one direction to go, forward, and only one answer, the fae. Kavinsky had brought Matthew here and he had presented him to the fae and for what? What could he have possibly gained from doing so?

Ronan couldn't think of a single thing.

The better question was, what did the fae want with Matthew?

"Declan," Ronan said, grabbing his brother by the arm, "I think it's time you told me what's going on." When Declan didn't offer anything up, he added, "Who are the fae?"

Now Declan spoke. "You don't remember?" His words were smug even if his tone wasn't. Declan knew he didn't remember. "They're fairies. Not like pixies or those little things in cartoons. More like sidhe. You've met them before. You weren't a fan."

That wasn't the answer Ronan needed.

"Five years ago," Ronan said. "What happened?"

Declan scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "You really want to know? You went after Whelk...and I went after you. When we came out, you didn't recognize anyone. You stayed with me and Matthew for a week. Then you disappeared. When you came back, it was with Opal."

"I don't remember."

"Is there anything you do remember?" For once, Declan's words didn't come across antagonistic. They were almost kind. "Ronan, I can't tell you everything that happened that day. You're the only one who can."

"What does Whelk have to do with this?" Ronan asked.

"Look around you, Ronan." Declan spread his arms in a broad gesture that encompassed everything from there to the horizon. "This isn't Earth. The Fair Folk don't come from Earth. They have their own realm. It's just over that rise. And  _that_ ," he said, putting heavy emphasis on the word, "is where you followed Whelk."

"Is this a joke?"

"Do I look like I'm joking? How much impossible shit have you seen in the last few days?" Declan poked Ronan in the chest. "How much impossible shit have you  _done_?"

"Fuck you, Declan," Ronan snarled, pushing his brother back.

"No, fuck you, Ronan. Matthew would have never have been taken if you'd spent five seconds watching him instead of getting tanked."

"I had one beer!"

"Right." There was not an ounce of belief in Declan's voice.

"You know what, I don't need this. Matthew's twenty-two. He doesn't need a babysitter."

"You're an idiot," Declan replied. "All I have  _ever_ done is try to look out for you and you can't even be bothered to notice."

"When have you ever looked out for me?" Ronan sputtered in disbelief. He swung at Declan and missed. Declan didn't. The blow hit Ronan high on his cheek, causing his head to snap back and him to lose his balance. He tumbled to the ground. In an instant, he was up on his elbows. "You only care about yourself!"

Declan laughed. It was loud and false, as lacking in belief as Ronan's sputtering. He placed a dirt-covered shoe on Ronan's chest and shoved him back down. Leaning forward so they were eye-to-eye, he said, "I have  _always_ looked out for you. Who's been keeping things in order since Dad died? Me. Who's taken care of Matthew? Me. I've lost people because of you, Ronan. That isn't something easily forgiven."

"Oh, fuck off," a voice said. "You lost me because you were too much of a piece of shit to come back for me."

"Jiang?" Ronan asked.

"Chyeah," Jiang crouched down to look a dazed Ronan in his rapidly swelling eye. "Hate to break it to ya but your big brother's guilt-tripping you for nothing. Fucker left me for dead. He tried to tell me it was for your sake and here he is trying to pin it on you." He looked up at Declan with a wry expression. "Good thing I don't really give a shit."

Declan's nostrils flared, though whether it was out of irritation or interest Ronan couldn't tell.

"Start a fire," Declan said, flinging the words over his shoulder at Gansey and SickSteve. "Pile it up high. We want them to know we're coming."

"Jiang," he added, his voice gravelly in its sudden quietness. "Can we talk alone?"

 

* * *

 

"This isn't going to go well," Jiang said as he followed Declan into the tree line. Whether he meant it for himself or the both of them was up in the air. "Come on, D, what's your story this time?" He tried to sound amused. The effort failed. "You would have stopped the hunters if you could? You would have called them off if it weren't for Ronan?" He was baiting Declan and he didn't even know why. Jiang wanted Declan to tell him he had it all wrong, that there was a reason he had survived. The hunters hadn't listened to Declan. They'd gone ahead, they'd made assumptions, and Declan had shown up too late.

But this was Declan and, of course, that wasn't what he said.

"They found you by that boy's body. What were they supposed to think?"

"You're defending them? You know I didn't do it. I couldn't!"

"Why were you on the ley line that day? Why were you there?"

Jiang shook his heads, his lips thin. "He was my friend. Argh." He drew his fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands. "Not my friend. We knew each other. I don't- I don't know how but we did. I just- I needed to feed, D. And I felt him there. Decaying. There was something wrong with the energy source, like- like a black hole, sucking everything in. He was at the center." Jiang glared at Declan. "Your hunter friends never asked. They couldn't feel it. They didn't know what his death meant. I tried to tell them. They wouldn't listen. They attacked and you just stood there."

"I-"

"Don't. I get it. You had to help your brother. But stop acting like you were the one who got hurt. Whatever the fuck happened to you, it wasn't what happened to me." The corners of Jiang's mouth were turning down. His throat was closing up. He didn't want it to be this way. Declan wasn't supposed to know how much he had hurt him. Jiang took a shaky breath. "Let's just find Matthew, okay? He's probably not even with the fae. I bet you Kavinsky's got him somewhere. He's laughing at us right now. You know Matthew: he'll forget all about this. He probably thinks it's some big game."

Declan stared at him for a moment.

“Jiang,” he said quietly. “You've never met Matthew.”

“What? Yes, I ha-“ Jiang shut his mouth. No, Declan couldn't be right. But he was. What Declan was saying was true- Jiang hadn't met Matthew, not in this life at least. He only ever knew Ronan and barely that. Declan never even told him he had another brother, except in those final, fateful days when Ronan went missing and Declan tried to find him. “I met him a couple days ago, at the party,” he amended.

Declan looked skeptical but he let it slide. In a moment, they would pretend they never had this argument. Jiang could breathe again.

It wasn't right, though. Jiang  _did_ know Matthew. Somehow. They cried together once, Matthew over Aurora and Jiang over Proko, the grief of losing people who didn't need to be lost.

What?

That didn't make any sense. Jiang never did that. Proko wasn't lost.

Jiang shook his head, trying to loosen the strange cobwebs inside it. He never used to have a problem keeping his identities straight. He'd live somewhere for a time, then he'd move on, keeping names and loves and friends separate, knowing that losing them was better than letting them in.

But ever since Declan, well, ever since  _then_ , he'd had the hardest time keeping his lifetimes straight. His time with Declan was a shifting quagmire of memory, some more real than others. Matthew felt real. Jiang could picture him in his mind: blue eyes, blond curls, brown skin. Freckles like starbursts and a smile like the sun. He was nothing like Declan, nothing like Ronan. They belonged to the shadows and he to the light.

Those were not Declan's words. Jiang  _did_ know Matthew. He had to.

Because the alternative was that his mind, like his body, was rotting from the inside out.

 

* * *

 

"Jiang," Declan said after a time, firewood bundled in his arms. Jiang had gotten bored and taken a stick to the earth, squatting down as he carved deep lines into it. He couldn't get over the awful feeling that part of his mind, the part that wasn't falling to pieces, was locked away from him.

When he was alive, he would have dreams sometimes, confusing, hyperrealistic ones he would wake up from and never quite forget. He would believe in them without question, letting them mingle with truth until they became like gossip or an errant song, untraceable. They would linger until something would smash their fake reality apart and remove them from his mind.

This, if anything, was the opposite of that. Jiang was certain two things were true: 1) that he did know Matthew; and 2) that Proko had been lost.

He had been mulling over it for the last hour, trying to figure out what that second bit meant. Proko becoming a vampire? He had come to Kavinsky human, as most of the house had. It wasn't that long ago that he was turned, two months maybe. Swan hadn't liked that.

But that wasn't the answer. Jiang scratched a deep furrow into the ground, then plunked his chin down on his hands.

"Jiang," Declan said again. He wanted to start the argument back up again. Jiang didn't. He wanted to forget they had argued. They should both pretend five years ago never happened. Declan could take him here, on this cold ground. Jiang wouldn't mind. He wasn't sensitive to the cold.

“I messed up, alright?" Declan said. Jiang groaned. "Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You didn't make a mistake. You left me to die.”

“I know. I'm trying to apologize-“

“Yeah and you're terrible at it,” Jiang muttered.

"What did you say?"

"You abandoned me!" Jiang yelled, throwing his stick down and standing up.

"What was I supposed to do?” Declan argued. “They had my brother!"

"I don't- I don't know! Maybe come back for me, see if I was even fucking alive?"

"If you're asking me to put you above my brother, you sorely misunderstood our relationship."

"Yeah," Jiang said, "I kind of got that."

"I had to save Ronan and Matthew. You had already lived so long-"

"Cut the shit."

Declan clenched his teeth. "Only if you do. How old are you, Jiang? A hundred? A thousand? The choice was save someone who would waste his life among the Fair Folk or help you, who I _thought_ , could get himself out of that mess.

"You could have killed those hunters. That's what I thought."

"Damnit," Declan said. "I mourned you. When I came out and you were gone, I knew I had made a bad choice. I still would have made it, saved the only family left to me, but I didn't think they would actually be able to hurt you."

"You left me surrounded by dog's blood with peach slivers sticking out of my neck! What did you think would happen?"

"I thought you would kill them! You would knock them out and you would escape. I didn't expect to find an empty grave." Declan's voice hushed. His fingers reached out and he faltered. The fingers formed a fist. "I didn't think you were going to be that vulnerable."

"I stopped taking from humans because of you. What did you think would happen?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about you! You tell so many lies, I guess I actually started to believe them."

Jiang's lips curled back to reveal his teeth. "Like you aren't a liar yourself."

They glared at each other.

Jiang sucked in an unnecessary breath and let his expression wash away. He was so tired of being angry. He pointed at his neck. "What's the tracker for?"

"The what?"

"The tracker. I know it's there; don't try to tell me it isn't. You put it there before you lost your brother. What's it for?"

Declan's gaze flickered over Jiang's face, then his neck. There was an earnestness to his expression, a surprising lack of guardedness. The fragility in him made Jiang ache.

“It's not a tracker,” Declan said, sitting down next to the pile of firewood with a sigh. He rubbed his hands over his face. “It's protection. With that on, no one can hurt you. Hunters can't distinguish you from a normal human, monsters can't detect you, poisons have no effect. You're safe.”

Jiang's throat felt suddenly dry. “Why would you give me something like that?”

Declan laughed bitterly. “I don't know, maybe to make up for being a shitty human being?”

Jiang sat down next to him. He nudged Declan with his shoulder. "You're not that shitty."

"You nearly died because of me."

"Yeah, well, that's on me for trusting you." Jiang gazed up at the grey sky. He didn't want to argue about this. He was not innocent of blame. There had been a disturbance in the ley line, so strong Jiang couldn't not go looking for it. He wasn't the only one. Everything with a drop of magic in the immediate area had come to learn what had happened to the ley line. Jiang was the only one who had been more distracted by the dead boy than the portal rising out of his mutilated form.

_"What were they supposed to think?"_

What indeed. When he had first met him, Declan hadn't cared whether Jiang was a danger to humans or not. It was not a thing hunters were taught to think.

“Going to the fae," Jiang said, looking at Declan from the corners of his eyes. "It's a trap, isn't it?”

“The Fair Folk won't hurt you,” Declan replied. “You don't have anything they would want.”

“And you do?”

Declan didn't answer the question directly. “I shouldn't have brought Ronan here. I'm going to send him and Gansey back with the haetae. You go with them. You'll be safe.”

“If this thing," Jiang gestured at his neck, "is going to keep me safe either way, I want to find my friends.”

“Assuming they're still alive.”

“They could be.”

“You should go,” Declan said firmly.

“Why?” Jiang argued back. He wanted Declan to say something back, something like  _you’re too important to me_ or  _I need you safe._

“Because” was Declan's response, “I've dealt with the fae before. I can get Matthew out. Alone.”

“I'm not leaving. I don't know if you've noticed, but this is my kind of world, not yours. Matthew disappeared when my house did. You can't tell me common sense doesn't say they'd be where he is.”

“And what if they're not? What if they handed him off and split?”

“I guess we'll just have to find out,” Jiang said, stubbornness edging out any other emotion in his voice.

Jiang paused suddenly and tilted his head to the side. "Someone's here."

"How many?" Declan asked just as they heard SickSteve roar.

Within seconds, they were both on their feet and running.

"One," Jiang gasped, "but something's off. He feels..."

"Overpowered?"

"More like under. I think he might be human."

If he was a human, he was no kind JIang had ever seen before. The man's skin was gray. Gunmetal gray, a color found among no human population. His hair was a lighter shade of the same, his clothes and ring as well.

So, too, was the gun pressed against Gansey's temple.

 

* * *

 

"Who are you?" Ronan demanded at the same time as Declan said, "Let him go before you regret it."

"You can call me the Gray Man," the man said. "I am here to offer a trade." He held Gansey against his chest, one arm wrapped around Gansey's neck, the other holding a gun against the side of his head, ready to shoot. "Information for information."

"Most people don't hold their trade partners hostage," Declan said. Ronan's eyes darted between Gansey and the gun pointed at his temple.

"I know who you are, Declan Lynch, and I know what you're capable of. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Let him go." Ronan's voice was constricted. "We'll tell you whatever you want."

It was with quiet civility that the Gray Man released Gansey and settled down in front of the fire. SickSteve looked at him balefully and did not resume human form.

"My employer was found murdered in his bed a week ago," the Gray Man began. "We know who killed him, that isn't the point. I have suddenly found myself out of employment and eager to leave this place."

"You don't know how," Gansey guessed from where he stood next to Ronan on the other side of the fire. Top notch WASP education, he didn't even flinch talking to the man who had threatened to kill him ten minutes before. Jiang would comment but his own survival instincts had dropped down the toilet not too long ago. Better reasons, at least.

"Correct. But some in your party do. Declan Lynch was here five years ago. He left and now he has returned. Only humans in favor of the queen have been known to do that. Such as your father." He looked at Declan. "You, however, were never in the queen's favor and you stole something rather precious to her. A changeling."

"I'm not helping you," Declan said. "You've told me nothing I don't already know."

"What if I said I knew where your brother was? Or, should I say, your nephew?"

 

* * *

 

Time slowed to nothing.

With all the calm in the world, Declan stood up and walked over to the Gray Man. There was no expression in his eyes when he knelt and picked up the gun by the man's side. The Gray Man didn't react. He sat motionless, looking, if anything, half-asleep, as Declan pointed the gun between his eyes and pulled the trigger once, twice, and then a third time.

The only sound was the body tilting over and hitting the ground. Declan wiped the gun clean and threw it onto the man's chest.

"Thank you," he said to Jiang.

"No problem."

Declan kicked dirt onto the fire. It guttered for a second before it died, far quicker than should have been possible.

"We need to get going," Declan said. "It's best to deal with the fae in the early morning, before the sun's reached its highest point." He slung the overnight bag's strap across his chest. "Well?"

Gansey and Ronan were still staring at the body in shock.

"Was that really necessary?" Gansey asked, his voice surprisingly steady. The air was thick with fear. Ronan could hardly breathe. Declan had been so calm, so completely casual.

"Ronan," Declan said, "there's a signet ring on his left hand. Take it off and bring it to me."

Ronan looked at his brother in abject horror. Declan sighed and retrieved the ring himself.

He turned it so the design on the face was visible.

"Tell me, Ronan, what does this look like to you?" Ronan couldn't speak. The last time he had seen that mark, it had been in blood. "Exactly. It's the mark of Colin Greenmantle, the Gray Man's employer."

"He killed our father," Declan said to Gansey. He didn't need to tell Ronan this. "And he didn't know where Matthew was." Declan chucked the ring aside. "Any more questions?"

No one dared say anything.

 

* * *

 

Jiang had wondered how they would be able to tell when it was early morning. Now he knew. The fae part of Elphyne was unlike the surrounding countryside. It was not in grayscale. In fact, it was so bright as to make Jiang ill.

Faerie, Declan called it. Both the center of and a realm apart from the rest of Elphyne, Faerie and, indeed, all of Elphyne had once been the home of the fae. Years of hunting had thinned their numbers and forced other magical beings into their lands until they had sucked the very brightness out of all other parts. Even with efforts to reclaim land, Faerie was a microscopic enclave surrounded on all sides by a dreary landscape teeming with dangerous beasts.

If that wasn't a depressing story, Jiang didn't know what was.

Then again, he didn't have much sympathy for people who had slain a dragon and stolen its home.

The fae stronghold was like nothing like Jiang had expected. Instantly, the name made sense. The fae stronghold wasn't a castle. It was a Soviet-era military compound, constructionism at its finest. Cold, austere, unforgiving, made worse so by the knowledge that this had once been a dragon's palace. Jiang could imagine the reds and golds, the elegantly carved wood, painted at the lintels, the jade and marble. It must have been glorious, striking awe into anyone who was fortunate enough to see it. Even now, Jiang could sense the last vestiges of the dragon's power, the richness of its blood and the strength in its ivory bones. It had lived and died here, and the fae had simply buried its body in the earth and built on top of it.

No, Jiang realized, stretching his senses, they had built  _with_ it. The dragon's bones were the foundation of the stronghold. The fae had taken a creature of the air and the sea and entombed it in solid concrete so that it might never know peace.

A great grief washed over Jiang and he did not know whether it was his or the dragon's.

 

* * *

 

Call it  _qi_ , chakra, energy, Jiang never had the luxury of knowing how it was he used to prolong his existence. All he knew was that, where there was energy, he recognized it.

Blood had energy and so did the ground, in some places. There was energy on the wind, in car batteries, and in the roar of a crowd. Jiang had stood in the center of a power grid, electricity crackling around him, energy made from dead things, plants long decayed, sunlight near cold after its hundred million mile journey.

No matter what, nothing was as good as humans.

An alive ley line was palatable, fed as it was by millennia of human upkeep (this Jiang knew because he had met one of the priestesses, the last of her kind, and told her he would spare her life if she would teach him how to tap in. She said no. Jiang learned anyhow).

The fae stronghold was swimming in energy and it was an anathema to Jiang. Glamour was a peculiar thing, like perfume or air freshener. Rather than alter the actual state of things, it masked what lay beneath, sometimes more poorly than others. Enough of it clogged the air and made it difficult to breathe.

The two-story high, wooden doors had opened of their own accord, magic spun into their hinges, to reveal a thankfully dim hallway. The stench of glamour only increased as the five of them stepped inside.

The stronghold was heavily decorated. Woven tapestries hung on the wall and ornate, knotted rugs lay on the floor. Here and there were stands on which rested pots of miniature trees heavy with fruit, sweet-smelling flowers, and creeping vines, Water poured over a cut away wall and flowed into a pond filled with darting fish. Fake, all of it.

There was glamour woven into the very stones of the stronghold, so strong Jiang suspected if he stole even the smallest bit, the entire thing would unravel and reveal a putrid core. He could taste, in the back of his throat, the tang of the dragon's blood. Many years had passed since it had been shed but the ground still lay rich with iron.

"It stinks of magic," Jiang told SickSteve. The xiezhi didn't reply.

They walked down the empty hall.

No one stopped them. Still, there were eyes upon them. The tinkling of laughter could be heard in the halls, the snatch of fabric as someone darted out of sight. 

They walked uninhibited into the very heart of the stone structure.

 

* * *

 

The queen was waiting for them.

"Declan Lynch," a cruelly beautiful woman sneered from her throne. Her skin nearly translucent in its paleness, she was clad in an elegant gold brocade gown, a circlet of silver resting upon her coif of blonde hair. Pearls dripped from her ears and throat. Diamonds glittered in the folds of her dress. Blue veins pulsed beneath her paste-pale skin. "Did you bring me the Greywaren?"

"Your Highness," Declan said, sweeping a bow, "as I told you the last time we spoke, there is no Greywaren."

"You also told me you would stay for a hundred years. Then you stole a pet changeling from me and disappeared."

"I only retrieved that which should not rightfully have been taken, your Highness."

Piper's mouth set in a hard line. "Your father promised our kind his thirdborn child for a boon."

Declan did not look at Ronan when he said, "My father had no thirdborn child."

"Liondog," Piper snapped to SickSteve, "does he speak true?"

"Yes."

"Then the human is released. Find him and take him. But you, Declan Lynch, have made promises you have not kept. Where is the Greywaren?"

"My father lied about many things, as you well know. There is no Greywaren."

"I see. It is in our ways to keep you if you cannot fulfill a bargain, yet I tire of your face, Declan Lynch. If you have no Greywaren to give me, bring me its equivalent."

"What do you suggest?"

Piper looked bored as she examined the nails of her left hand. "Twenty years ago, a dragon made its home on these grounds. One of my husbands slew him and built this castle atop his bones. His treasure hoard lies deep beneath the foundations of this castle. Find the cintamani and bring it to me. Then our bargain will be dissolved."

"How will I find him when I have your item?" Declan asked.

Piper tapped her fingers against her throne. "I have never had any use for the child. He is somewhere within my lands. I do not know exactly. One of my magicians should be able to help locate him upon your return. Now leave before I change my mind."


	21. Chapter 21

No one ever noticed the bees.

One hid in SickSteve's mane, another in the long hairs of Ryang's ear. A third clung to the inside collar of Cheng2's shirt. A fourth, a fifth flitted about in the space between worlds.

It was a network of mecho-magical communication in worlds that accepted one or the other but never both.

The sixth bee sat now in the palm of Henry Cheng's hand as he listened to a joint report from Koh and Ryang.

They had made it.

SickSteve's communication had been infrequent. His magic had been corrupting his bee for some time, making it recalcitrant and moody. Henry had noticed it talked to Lee-Squared's still. It worried him that SickSteve had made no efforts to contact Ryang's prior to running into him.

"Where are they going now?"

"The fae kingdom," Ryang said, voice scratchy from magical interference. It took considerable effort to pierce the fog between worlds. Henry would like to think that was the reason for SickSteve's near radio silence. "You could have told us to look for them, Cheng."

"It wasn't necessary."

"We found them in a witch's snare."

"Lee-Squared will be wanting SickSteve back," Koh added in Korean. "A lot of time must have passed since they left."

"Only a few weeks," Henry said breezily. "Nothing on your side." He was guessing. The time differential was inconsistent, stretching longer in some places and shorter in others. Henry had only his mother's prediction that all would be well.

She liked Declan Lynch, he reminded himself. She had a vested interest in her son's happiness. They  _would_ return.

There was another prediction, one that Henry wished fiercely to be true: Gansey and Blue would return to him.

"Hunters are on the move," Lee-Squared's disembodied voice said. He had been listening in, as interested in the report as Henry but for different reasons. "If they hurt him-"

"They won't," Henry reassured.

"You told me a week ago he would be back in three days."

"If his task was complete." Henry sounded more patient than he felt. This sort of snippiness was unusual coming from Lee-Squared but increasingly common over the last week and a half. Henry wanted to tell Lee-Squared to shove another piece of pie in his face and let him handle this. He had enough good graces to assess that idle thought and determine it rude.

"I want him home, Cheng."

"He'll come home when he's finished."

"You said three days."

 _Look_ , Henry wanted to say,  _he's not answering me. He's not with Ryang or Koh. I know where he_ should  _be but I don't know where he_ is _._  "A little more time. That's all I need. Then you'll get your dog."

Without reply, the connection went dead, Lee-Squared's determination outweighing Henry's hold on his bees.

Henry groaned and rubbed his face. Three days. How was he supposed to accomplish that? Hold on. Three days? A grin passed over his face. SickSteve must not have told Lee-Squared why he had agreed to this.

When Ryang found him, SickSteve had been searching for someone. Henry had found that person for him. He never asked SickSteve why he was looking for someone he had never met. SickSteve had always been adamant he would find answers on his own. Henry's help was necessary, not wanted.

SickSteve would come home when his search was up. He was as deep in this as Henry was, as Ryang.

Because, no matter what anyone else said, they three of them knew there was something deeply wrong with this world.


	22. Chapter 22

In the Land of Seelie, it was always summer. The sun shone endlessly; there was no night. The air was both warm and cool as it gusted over the rolling hills. The people of the barrow, the _aes sídhe_ _,_ lived long lives. They accepted nothing less than paradise.

This was what Niall Lynch told his sons.

If Matthew were Ronan, he might have looked at the summer lands and seen the paradise. If Matthew were Declan, he would have said it was glamour and that Niall Lynch's stories weren't true to anyone save Niall.

But Matthew was Matthew and Matthews weren't prone to questioning things. Matthew liked the sun and he liked the warmth, and he liked the barrows.

But he was lonely.

 

* * *

 

A raven perched in the branches of a hawthorn tree on which berries of a deep red color hung. Though he desired them, Matthew dared not pluck them. Hawthorns were sacred to faeries. They often served as their homes or gateways. You were not to harm these trees, especially not if a faerie resided there. They might kill your cows.

Matthew didn't want any cows to die because of him.

He hummed along to the music coming over the hills. There was always music here, lively tunes acted out onbodhran drums, fiddles, and flutes. It seemed to Matthew that he knew the melodies but not the lyrics.

The raven croaked, catching Matthew's attention.

"Matthew," it said, for in the Land of Seelie all animals could speak, "you must leave this place."

"But I'm having so much fun," Matthew replied. "Can't I stay a little bit longer?"

"This is not a good place," the bird croaked, flapping its wings and flying away. "Think on that. I will return."

 

* * *

 

"You're back," Matthew said to the raven. It had been lonely without its company. The Fair Folk came three times a day, to feed him and occasionally to ask questions. Mostly, though, they left him alone.

"I am."

"I think I must know you," Matthew told the raven. It had hopped to a lower branch so that they were nearly eye to eye. "Did the Morrígan send you?"

"No," the raven said, lifting its wing to groom underneath. "I was not sent by Badb or Macha or Anand." It cocked its head. "Do _you_ know the Morrígan?"

"No," Matthew admitted. He would like to know the Morrigna, if only to have friends here. It was very lonely. The man with the funny name hadn't been back in such a long time. "Who sent you then?"

"No one," the raven answered matter-of-factly. "I sent myself."

Then it leapt from the branch, flapped its wings, and was gone.

 

* * *

 

"Where do you go," Matthew asked, "when you're not here?"

"Wherever I wish," the raven replied around the thing in its beak. "Take this," it said, placing the object in the palm of Matthew's hand.

It turned out to be a rather large, bee-shaped Thing. It was not a bee, of that Matthew was certain. This thing was cold, sleek, mechanical, more wasp than bee, more bee than wasp. The joints were finely articulated, the wings clear as stained glass. A tiny, yellow glow emanated from within its abdomen, powering the whole thing.

"It's shiny," Matthew said. He did not know what to say. What Matthew wanted were people. What the raven had given him was a toy.

"It will serve you well. Conceal it from sight and do not lose it."

Matthew placed the bee in his pocket. The raven seemed satisfied with that decision.

"I don't know your name," Matthew said as the raven was about to lift off and leave him again.

The raven looked over its shoulder. "Yes, you do. It's Chainsaw."

 

* * *

 

"As I was walking all alone/Between a water and a wa/And there I spy'd a wee wee man/And he was the least that ere I s-"

"You shouldn't sing that here."

Matthew looked up, expecting to see the raven. Instead, he found himself nearly face to face with the man with the funny name.

"Oh," Matthew said. "I did not know that."

"And now you do."

Matthew waited for the man with the funny name to say something. Usually, he asked questions when he was here, mostly about Ronan and Ronan's friends. He never seemed happy with Matthew's answers.

"Are you happy, Matthew?" the man asked.

"Yes," Matthew answered. He was not happy but he had enough sense to know that that was not the answer the man wanted.

"You would like to stay here, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Matthew answered again. That was true. He _would_ like to stay here, if Ronan and Declan and some friends were here. It was so sunny and nice.

"Excellent. I'm sad to say this, Matthew, but there are people who want to take you away from here. They want to send you back to where you came from. They don't want you to be happy. Because they want you to leave so very badly, I'm going to take you somewhere safe. I'm going to talk to these people and explain to them that you want to stay here. Then you'll be able to come back. Does that sound alright to you?"

Declan would have said it sounded very bad.

Ronan would have said the man sounded like an asskisser.

Matthew had the uneasy feeling saying "no" would not go well. So he said yes.


	23. Chapter 23

Ashley was pulling a pickaxe out of a shapeshifter's skull when she got the call.

She clicked her Bluetooth. "Hello?"

"Orla Sargent sends her regards."

"Helen," Ashley said warmly. She wiped the axe on the shifter's clothes. They were going to get burned soon, anyhow. "What did you think of the catering spread?"

"Absolutely atrocious. You realize my mother will be there? She's bringing the press."

Ashley hummed noncommittally. Mrs. Gansey was a conservative bore who cared about nothing so much as remaining an incumbent for life. If LGBT acceptance weren't a hot button issue, Ashley was sure her presence at the wedding would be nonexistent.

"So we'll have to add a touch of class," Ashley said. "I'll talk to the caterers."

“I've already done it. That isn't why I called. Orla's had a vision."

Orla was a mutual ex who had somehow slid into friend territory. Ashley thought she'd left that drama behind but Orla had a way of wriggling back into your life at the most opportune times.

"About us?"

"About Declan. She called me because apparently my darling baby brother is with him."

Ashley sighed. Obviously she was going to go after them (Dick was, after all, slated to give a speech at the reception) but it got a little tiring, dealing with Declan's messes.

Six years ago, when she first met him, the Lynches' credit was running low. It wasn't unheard of for hunters to cohabit with their prey but Niall had been more dealer than hunter and, when it came to light that his nymph wife was in fact a living figment of his imagination, public opinion soured. Then he got himself killed and his sons made absolute asses of themselves. The dryads were still trying to repair the damage Declan and Ronan had caused. Artemus refused to venture into the forest to this day.

And then there were Declan's unconventional, if highly successful, methods. Or was it the fact that he had hid his brothers' true natures for so long? Whatever it was, Declan wasn't exactly welcome in hunting circles these days.

And yet he refused to quit. Ashley wondered if her tip off led him to his latest hunt.

Ashley sighed again. Well.  _She_ certainly wouldn't be too arrogant to ask for help.

 

* * *

 

Ashley Lancaster had never planned on actually liking Declan Lynch. She was the scion of an ancient hunting family and he was the son of a powerful, unpredictable dealer. It wasn’t a love match but rather one made out of necessity.

A wig. That’s what she was. He didn’t call her that and it wasn't perhaps the closest definition of the word but that was what she was. Most girls would get mad over that, over being toyed with and used to ease someone’s fears. But Ashley found Declan interesting enough and from him she learned how not to be who she was. And it was through his brother’s friend that she met Helen and the wedding was this June so where was the harm in that? Thank you, Declan.

Declan had tried to play her and he had failed. Still, she had some fondness for him. He was, again, the reason she met Helen.

Ashley knew his secrets. His family's weren't hard to discover, although hard even for a hunter to believe. She knew his hit count, his dealings, his dalliances.

She knew, too, how much that jiangshi meant to him.

He was a hard break from Declan's other entanglements. Strangely staying and now with a connection to Ronan. He made Declan happy for a while.

Ashley was the one who told them to bury him without burning him. She couldn't say she was surprised he'd resurfaced. Or displeased.

Declan, for all his faults, didn't deserve to be  _miserable_.

 

* * *

 

"She's coming," Maura's voice said. She rolled a chunk of quartz in her hand as she gazed into nothingness. "Blue, you must go with her."

As predictions went, it was hardly cryptic.

"Who am I speaking to today?" Blue asked, suppressing a full body shudder. Maura's face was shifting, the color and shape fluctuating as it tried to adapt to the channeler.

"Calla," Calla said. Her face settled and the slim body suddenly seemed to take up much more room.

The body had belonged solely to Maura Sargent once. Now Calla and Persephone, shadowy figures from Blue's childhood, took it over with semi-regularity, though Maura said they were always there. Their souls were restless. If they didn't come to her, they would find someone else to haunt.

"It's crucial you go with her," Calla said.

"Who?" Blue asked.

"The huntress."

 

* * *

 

When she came, it was with a bang.

The knock on the door was sharp, a quick one-two-three. Insistent, it demanded attention.

The three women in the cluttered front hallway waited for her to knock again. Calla said that was how they would know.

Gwenllian opened the door. Anyone afraid of her, she reasoned, could hardly be a true hunter.

She didn't look like a hunter, this newcomer. She was taller than Blue but not tall enough to be willowy or elegant. Orla dwarfed her, as Gwenllian dwarfed Orla. The woman had a beautiful face, blonde hair, and dark eyebrows. Her nails were French-manicured, perfect. Her clothes were the sort that said money and private schools and New England. She looked as if she had never seen a speck of blood in her life. She looked as if she ate men's testicles for breakfast.

"Ashley!" Orla crowed, throwing her arms around the woman. “What did you bring me? A potion? An ingredient? A kiss?”

The woman smiled, her lipstick perfect and not at all smudged on her teeth.

“I brought you nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Tell me what it is and I’ll give it to you.”

Orla leaned over and whispered in the woman's ear.

"Right you are," the huntress said, producing a small box from the pocket of her black pea coat. Orla squealed and made off with her toy.

“Blue Sargent,” the huntress said, turning to her, “your friends are in trouble. They need your help.”

 

* * *

 

All it took was Ronan Lynch's name.

Blue Sargent, it seemed, had found herself in a situation not unlike Ashley's: cleaning up a Lynch's mess. When Niall Lynch had created copies of himself, he had done the whole world a disservice.

Over tea, Ashley explained to Orla, Blue, and that horrifying mirror-witch what she knew. Declan, Ronan, and Gansey had walked the path between worlds and presently found themselves in Elphyne. A pocket of space-time, it was easy to reach, much harder to leave. Whatever they had gone looking for, they were sure to find it. The question was whether they would be able to leave with it.

"They have help," Ashley said. "A shaman took a liking to Declan a few years back. She has persuaded her son to offer him assistance. They travel in the company of a haetae.

"The problem is, no one has heard from this haetae in several days. He was supposed to be their ticket out. Now the shaman's son is afraid something has happened to them. So I have come to you, Blue Sargent, to ask for your help."

"Me?" Blue asked.

"You have free passage in Elphyne courtesy of your father," Ashley said. "Nothing can hold you there, not even the fae. And you have a vested interest in finding Ronan and Gansey, do you not?"

It was unkind, leaning on Blue's past associations like that but it was necessary. Seondeok said the haetae was their only way out. Assuming it was injured in some way, Declan would have no way back. He had tricked the fae queen into letting him leave last time. There was no chance he could do the same again. They would have to use a mirror. That left two choices: Gwenllian...or Blue.

Ashley much preferred the second option.

"There isn't much time," Ashley said. "If we want to save them, we need to go soon."

After a moment of deliberation, Blue acceded. Orla's vision had said she would, just as it said Ashley would be the one to convince her. Personally, Ashley thought Orla could have done the heavy lifting herself but witches were not known for their straightforward thinking.

Ashley chatted quietly with Orla while Blue went to gather her things. Gwenllian busied herself with tearing a ratty dress into shreds. She sang loudly that she was going to use them to make a cape. Witches.

Still, it wasn't often Ashley found tolerable people outside of the hunting and magical communities. The socializing alone was worth the effort. Helen might disdain them but Ashley found witches more bemusing than aggravating. They had their own way of seeing the world and of influencing it. She had ex-girlfriends scattered across half the covens on the East Coast.

When Blue finally stomped down the stairs, an indelicate, ungainly woman-child, it was with something entirely unwitchy in tow.

Ashley put her hands on her knees and knelt down to look at the satyr child. The Council had prepared a dossier once on Declan's niece. It had never gotten reviewed and was eventually forgotten. Witches really were the best for hiding secrets.

The child didn't look dangerous. She also didn't look human nor like the Lynches for that matter. Her eyes were overlarge, her features elfin. She reminded Ashley of someone, though she couldn't say who. Certainly not Declan or his brothers.

"Is Kerah in trouble?" she asked Ashley.

"Who?"

"That's what she calls her father," Blue explained.

"More or less," Ashley said. Helen didn't believe in lying to children. Ashley wasn't a great fan of it, either, no reason for another generation to learn to read between the lines, but truths didn't have to be  _truths_. She had Declan to thank for learning that one.

 

* * *

 

It was perhaps not the wisest idea to land a helicopter in the middle of a residential street. This, however, was one of many things You Did Not Tell Helen Gansey. The world conformed to her, not the other way around.

Ashley really did love this woman.

“You have a helicopter?” Blue asked, yelling to be heard over the copter blades as Ashley helped her climb inside.

“Of course,” Helen said, her features etched into polished marble. "I'm a registered pilot." She said it as if it were unthinkable for her to both be a pilot and not personally own her own aircraft.

Blue made a rude, though quiet noise. Helen elected to overlook it.

"Next stop," Ashley said, buckling herself in, "Devil's Marbleyard."


	24. Chapter 24

Matthew did not like the place the man with the funny name had taken him. It was not sunny here or warm or enjoyable in any way. In fact, it was cold and unpleasant and not fun at all. The Fair Folk didn't visit him here, only the man.

He was not a Good Man. He might even, Matthew thought, be very, very Bad.

"What is this?" the man asked. Between his forefinger and his thumb, he held the mechanical bee. Matthew had hidden it like he was supposed to but the man had found it anyway.

"That's mine," Matthew said.

The man crushed the bee in his palm and let the pieces fall to the floor.

"Why haven't your brothers come for you, Matthew?"

"I don't know," Matthew gasped, clutching his face as he stared at the tiny, broken pieces of the bee. Chainsaw gave that to him.

"Maybe you're not that important to them.  _Maybe_ you're just a little nuisance and they're hoping I get rid of you for them!" The man stepped towards Matthew.

"No!" Matthew said. He scrambled towards the bee, clutching its broken, little pieces to his chest. Chainsaw gave it to him. It was special. Not just because of Chainsaw. This little bee was magic.

"You know I never liked your middle brother. Ronan. Smug little bastard, isn't he? Never tried but always did so well in my class." The man laughed. "But that's a tale for another time. What a stupid little changeling you are. Do you know how rare it is to escape the fae once? You won't do it again. But, then, it doesn't really matter that you do."

Matthew didn't know what the man was saying. He seemed caught up in his own words and cleverness.

The bee's heart was still glowing faintly.  _Keep going_ , Matthew urged it,  _stay with me_. As the man continued to talk, its glow grew fainter until, finally, it was extinguished.

"Oh," Matthew said. "Just like that."

"What was that, Czerny?"

"Nothing," Matthew said. His brows furrowed together. "My name's not Czerny."

"Of course not. Why would it be?"

"You called me that."

It had been a slip of the tongue. Matthew felt a moment's pity for the man. He must be very confused. Maybe even scared. Niall Lynch had always said don't go into anything with all your emotions on the table. There was always one that could be used against you. Niall Lynch had loved and hated in abundance. A rascal and a scoundrel, he didn't let many know the other emotions that resided in his chest

The man's mouth twisted. "If your brothers don't come for you soon, Matthew, it might be time to send them a message. I think a finger will do, don't you?"

 

* * *

 

"Matthew?" a voice asked. The man had left when Matthew refused to respond to his threat. "Are you alright?" An icy hand touched his shoulder.

Matthew sniffled. "They broke Chainsaw's bee."

"Chainsaw's what? Oh."

The voice sounded fainter when it said, "Don't worry, Matthew. Your brothers are coming."

Matthew wiped his nose. When he looked up, there was no one there.


	25. Chapter 25

Shock has a tendency not to wear off quickly. This is especially true of the shock that comes from multiple truths being shattered in a short span of time.

People cling to truths. Truths create a stable world of nice, little boxes that people can live in and expand as they wish. Most people do not choose to expand their worlds more than necessary. Some actively seek to make their boxes larger. And some people have their boxes actively ripped apart.

Elphyne did not bother Ronan all that much. He had always been certain magic existed in this world for he _was_ magic. It stood to reason that his father's stories were traced in reality. It was Declan who bothered him.

Ronan was quickly coming to realize he had no idea who his brother was. The Declan Lynch he knew would never do the things Declan had done in the last twenty-four hours. That Declan was incapable of such deeds.

This Declan was someone Henry Cheng was frightened of and Jiang knew intimately. He was a hunter of magical beasts and a casual murderer. He had been a guest of the Seelie Court and escaped.

He was, perhaps most astonishingly, a man who had convinced the Queen of the Fae to acquiesce to his desires with seemingly no effort at all

 

* * *

 

A diminutive, brown-skinned woman led them through the depths of the fae stronghold. They passed massive ballrooms, halls of covered mirrors, a garden with trees of gold and silver. The starkness so visible outside was nowhere to be seen here.

Until it was.

The queen's attendant led them to a rough-hewn door studded with iron nails. Producing a key from the pocket of her gown, she unlocked it. Showing no sign of discomfort, she grasped the wrought iron handle and pulled.

A set of spiral, stone steps led into the darkness. The attendant clapped her hands and murmured. Instantly, the stairs were bathed in light.

They descended.

The air was rank in the close staircase, too many people passing through over the years without fresh air. The stone walls made the air cool but only served to trap the stench. It reminded Ronan of the time a mortally wounded woodrat had found its way into the back corner of the cattle barn and expired there. Niall Lynch had been away when the smell had first begun and, since it was a not a wise idea to investigate strange happenings about the Barns when Niall was not in residence, the family waited for his return to do anything about it. Niall took Declan into the barn and warned Ronan and Matthew to stay away. Aurora required no such warning. She and her husband had an unusually perceptive marriage and she would do nothing he did not wish. Declan was the one to find the woodrat's badly decayed remains. Later he would tell Ronan the smell, a foul, fishy odor, could have been rid of sooner if Niall did not have such stringent rules. As it was, the smell lingered for many days after.

This was that smell, only older and coated in a layer of dust. It was as if a great beast had perished here and been allowed to rot so long it had seeped into the very stone.

"I see you've noticed the smell," the attendant said. She was a fat woman, though elegant, with chubby wrists and a pleasant face. "Piper told you about the dragon? The queen's third husband- I believe his name was Pol- slew him as a wedding present to her. It resulted in his death but-" She shrugged, "-Piper was able to secure his palace." She rapped her knuckles against the curving wall of the staircase. "It's a pity the funeral and celebrations lasted so long. I do what I can to mask the smell but he's in the very stones and it would be an affront to the queen to replace them."

"In the stones?" Gansey asked, sounding like he was trying not to gag.

"Yes," the attendant replied. Peerless stares seemed more comfortable to her than blinking. "Piper wanted something to remember him by. I convinced her not to display the skeleton lest it inspire _quests_ to retrieve them." She said the word _quests_ as if they were an odious thing. "Let worshippers try to remove a thousand tons of concrete."

"Lynch," Jiang hissed from somewhere near the middle of Ronan's upper arm. Ronan looked down at him. "Be careful. She isn't fae."

That was a plus in Ronan's book.

"She smells like _Skov_."

"What? Are you sure?"

"I'd recognize his scent anywhere."

This woman knew where Matthew was. Or at least, she had seen Skov, who had to be in the company of Kavinsky, who had had Matthew at one point. Even if Ronan's dreaming had been true and Kavinsky was dead, the queen's attendant had come into contact with Kavinsky's people.

"Good."

Jiang looked frustrated. "Aren't you going to ask her where they are?"

"Why?"

"I don't know, because it's the smart thing to do?"

"The Fae Queen said she would hand Matthew over if we brought her the cintamani. That's what we'll do."

"People _lie_ ," Jiang said.

"Not the fae." Sidhe were known for staying true to their word. They were painfully exact in their interpretation of words. They did not lie.

" _She_ 's not fae."

"We didn't make an agreement with _her_. We made an agreement with the queen."

Jiang threw up his hands. He stomped down the stairs away from Ronan, effectively ending the conversation.

 

* * *

 

"What are the chances," Jiang asked as he sidled up next to Declan, "of a fae going back on their promise?"

"Next to none." Declan looked at Jiang. "Why do you ask?"

 _Because neither the queen nor this witch is fae. Because I don't just smell Skov, I smell Proko and Swan and Kavinsky,_ so _much Kavinsky; why do they smell so much like Kavinsky?_

"Hypothetical. Another hypothetical: what would a human be doing among the fae?"

Declan was in a generous mood, possibly because Jiang had kept the Gray Man immobile long enough for Declan to pump him full of lead. "A couple of things," he said in a cajoling undertone. "A nursemaid, for one, or a breeding partner. Fae women have little interest in producing or rearing children. Particularly handsome men might be whisked away for a spot of amusement. And then there are changelings." Declan sucked in a breath. "Fae sometimes steal infants away and replace them with a sickly fae child or a stock of wood. Humans call the replacement changelings and fae call the human children the same."

"Could she be a changeling?" Jiang asked, meaning the woman leading them.

Declan gave a surprised laugh. "Neeve? No. She's one of the queen's magicians."

There was one more hypothetical, this one left unsaid: why would a fae queen and her magician smell like they had bathed in a vampire's blood?


	26. Chapter 26

Before Kavinsky, Skov could have said he did not dream. He was dead. The dead didn't dream. Suspended animation, that's what it really was when he passed out sometime between two a.m. and first light. If he was lucky, he had his new brothers by his side. If he wasn't, he was alone.

There was nothing Skov hated more than being alone.

He was alone once, truly, awfully alone. His brothers murdered, his house burned. He couldn't go back to his blood family. Too much time had passed. They would not welcome him back, had they cared that he was missing at all.

So he had gone to a place that shouldn't have been familiar but was and he turned a dying boy and, for the first time in a long time, he had felt alright.

And, ever after, he dreamed.

These were very specific dreams, mind. Not at all the sort you told other people about. Skov's brothers would have never let him hear the end of it if they knew. If they were around to know.

It was pretty embarrassing to say but, ever since he met him, Skov had dreamt of Kavinsky.

He'd dreamt of someone  _like_ Kavinsky, strong, wild, and commanding, and he’d dreamt  _of_ Kavinsky, fast cars and fun times and drugs of every type.

But it was the time between when he bit Kavinsky and when Kavinsky revived that he dreamt something else. Something more like a memory than a dream. Something like a crowd and fireworks and an impossible creature in the sky. Something like a friend driving a Mitsubishi into a wall. Something like having the world shatter around him.

(Identical cars, Evos, ten in a row. A boy is locked in the trunk of one of them, Skov knows. Skov doesn’t care. The boy is as disposable as he himself is.)

(Why are they disposable? Skov doesn’t remember.)

(He hates being disposable.)

(Lynch isn’t disposable.)

(Who is Lynch?)

Skov remembered another thing, too. A boy with a face very like a certain someone’s staring into the fire consuming Kavinsky’s body.

 

* * *

 

As long as he could remember, ever since he met him, Swan had dreamt of Proko.

They were not your run-of-the-mill sex dreams or fantastic distractions of the mind. No, Swan’s dreams were terrible. They were filled with emotion: fear, anger, hatred, disgust; never at Proko but at someone else, someone who had done something to him that could not be undone. One would expect Swan’s dreams to involve affection for Proko or the like but they were always the same: someone was going to hurt Proko and Swan wouldn’t be there to stop it.

Sometimes the dreams were more specific. Swan saw pills and hospital beds and fires, gunshots and fireworks and squealing tires. Most often, he saw a broad smile, a glittering chain, and white sunglasses. He saw them before he knew Kavinsky and he attached them to him now, knowing without reason that Kavinsky was who he had to watch out for.

Skov joked that Swan must be psychic but Skov was a liar through and through and Swan knew he, too, had strange dreams.

Swan was certain, that Skov, in the deep, unfacetious part of him he showed almost no one, agreed that Proko and Kavinsky were more deeply entwined with the both of them than either of them knew.

 

 

 

Three Days Ago

 

"Where is he?" the fae queen demanded from her throne. She sat regal before him, her silk brocade gown in elegant folds across her slim form. Her left hand held her temple aloft; boredom writ all over her pale face.

"Who?" Kavinsky replied. The silver shackles on his wrists had weakened him so much he could barely stand.

"The Greywaren."

"The what?"

"Neeve, be a dear." The woman standing next to Kavinsky reached out and grabbed him by the chin. She held it for a moment, her fingers causing a disgusting tingle to spread through Kavinsky's skin. Proko made a noise of protest and was quickly hushed by Skov and Swan.

"He doesn't know," the woman said.

The queen made a noise of disgust. "He's of no use to me, then. Take the others' teeth." She snapped her fingers and Kavinsky exploded.

 

* * *

 

They say when you are about to die, you see a tunnel and a light at the end of it.

Joseph Kavinsky sees only trees.

“No,” Kavinsky screams, pounding his fists against the soft ground. “What is this?!”

He was more before, of that he is certain.

" _Fur_ ," the trees screech. " _Fur_ ,  _fur_ ,  _fur_."

He'll show them thief. There was a time when he was a god in his own right, a master forger. He took life then and he created it.

He was about to regain it when that bitch took it all away from him. Now he's reduced to nothing, condemned to an eternal twilight life if he so chose.

He doesn't choose.

Where is his beast, the demon creature that lurks in his nightmares, the dragon made of fire and flames and raw hatred? He lives in fear of that thing and yet it saved him once. The dream place was where it was born. This is its home.

It isn't here.

“No,” Kavinsky screams. “You can't do this to me!”

The trees are silent, uncertain. He has never spent so long in the dream place before. In and out. This is not a place for sightseeing.

He wishes, for once, they would attack him. If he is to be trapped here, let their branches tear into him, let the thorns scratch his face. There are monsters in these woods. Let them come and eat him alive.

Where is his dragon?

"I don't want this," Kavinsky says and he means life. If he cannot force these woods to produce, what is the point? He is a kid looking in a toy store window, knowing that nothing he says or does will let him go inside.

Without dreams, there is no point. He told Lynch there was nothing better than being turned. That was a lie, a manipulation to gain entry into Lynch's dreams. Kavinsky has no trouble reaching the dream place when he closes his eyes but its fruit is beyond his grasp. It is a barren, angry wood that greeted him as if he were an enemy too old to be considered a threat any longer but no so old as to be forgotten.

Now he is consigned here, forced to remember what he lost, out of control of his afterlife in a way he never was with his life.

With that thought comes a momentary flicker of joy. He ended it. It was glorious, one final act in the nightmare play that was Joseph Kavinsky's life.

(No, he ended it twice. Skov brought him back the second time, the bastard. That time was quieter, emptier, more shameful. Shame didn't suit Kavinsky.)

He will not fizzle out like this. He will be remembered. Proko will regret turning to Swan. Lynch will regret refusing his friendship, Jiang his deception. They will all remember that they could have stopped this if only they had been better.

Things haven't been set right. Like this, he will never be remembered by more than his chosen few. He was supposed to make a grand exit, everyone's eyes on him, the event so memorable people would ask, where were you when it happened?

He has to be remembered. If he can't wake up and return to the body he left, he'll find the only other person who can come here and make them remember him. It's only a matter of time before Lynch returns to the dream place.

Joseph Kavinsky settles back to wait.

 

* * *

 

“He's of no use to me then,” Piper said. "Take the others' teeth." She snapped her fingers.

Kavinsky's head and chest exploded. Brain matter and viscera sprayed across the room, droplets splattering across Swan's face. The rest fell as bloody rain to the floor, the grooves between the flagstones accepting it gratefully. In seconds, gory puddles were all that remained of their leader.

Proko puked.

Blood staining the front of her gown, her hands and face mottled red and white, Piper curled her lip in disgust. “Matter of fact, leave his. Lock him up with the human. We'll have ourselves a little sport.”

 

* * *

 

The guards dragged Skov back to his cage and threw him inside. He landed spread-eagle on the cold stone. The door clanged shut. The guards used thick cotton gloves to close the lock.

 _Fae_ , Skov thought as he lifted his head enough to spit on the ground. Creatures of sunlight and air and spring, they were a vampire’s natural enemy. You might say, Skov, I thought that was hunters but you know how many hunters could trace their lineages back to fae? Too many, that’s how.

With a groan, Skov rolled over. He stared up at the far-away cavern ceiling through the cage. It resembled a dog cage only larger, a steel contraption of the kind found in kennels. Hawthorn boughs heavy with white flowers were woven through the tops of the cage as well as adorned the door. It was not subtle. Hawthorn was sacred to the fae. Along with ash, oak, and aspen, it made the most deadly stakes, though by no means all. Swan had watched Johnny Farkas fall, heart pierced with a rowan branch. Hunters had butchered the Yushkevich brothers using iron.

Steel was a product of iron, as hateful to vampires as the fae. These holding cells were not designed with Skov, Swan, or Proko in mind. Regardless, they would do their job well.

There was no hope.

Skov didn't cry. He didn’t cry when his frat house burned down, dozens of immortal twenty-somethings inside (they were going to party to the next millennium. They were going to be gods of a new age. Instead, they barely lasted a decade and a half). He didn’t cry when he fled the hunters and the house that had been a home for four years, the house that had been a home for fifteen. He laughed and he drank and he moved to a new college, created a new frat, made a new identity that paled in comparison to the brotherhood he had thought would last a hundred lifetimes.

He had never felt the connection to Kavinsky that he had for his brothers, but that wasn’t why he didn’t cry. He didn’t cry because crying was weakness and he had been taught, when he was a child and alive, that boys didn’t cry. And he had learned, with his brothers, that boys did cry but only when drunk or high or otherwise inebriated enough that the mocking and the laughter were directed at who they were under the influence and not who they were outside of it.

So Skov didn’t cry.

But Proko did.

Proko keened until his throat was raw. He wept, bloody tears trailing down his cheeks while Swan looked at him helplessly, unable to comfort him because some losses are inconsolable. He wept and he wept, and he wept, and all Skov could think was that he was wasting precious blood. Eighteen hours had passed and Proko hadn’t fed in forty. Skov had gone without before, was old enough to know that he had to temper blood with beer and drugs and human food to keep the hunger at bay, but Proko hadn’t learned that lesson yet and Kavinsky hadn’t cared to teach him.

And now he was locked inside a cage with a human.

Skov had liked Swan. It was a shame he had to go this way.

Skov ran his tongue over the space where his right canine had been. Their jailors must be smart if they recognized Proko as a new vampire. Not new enough to be impervious to their restraints but new enough to kill his best friend in order to feed.

Well, it would be a show.

 

* * *

 

The guards tortured Skov, taking him in and out of his cell. Swan and Proko they left alone, only coming by to offer food and water twice a day

Skov hardly spoke. He had been defanged and beaten, the bruises fresh every time the guards brought him back, only to fade within minutes as they healed. What horrors he was reliving, Swan could only guess.

They had locked him up with Proko, who had kept his fangs in what Swan could only assume was a bid to have him attack Swan. Swan had been quietly feeding him from the veins in his wrist. Proko was too used to fresh blood and plenty of it. It wouldn't be long before hunger robbed him of what little control he had.

There were worse ways to die.

The woman, Piper, had asked where the Greywaren, whatever that might be, was. Kavinsky had said he didn't know but that meant nothing. Then she had snapped her fingers and splattered his remains across the floor.

What was the Greywaren? It must be important if they had been brought all the way here just to be questioned about it. Not important enough to keep Kavinsky alive, though.

So either they were being fucked with or their captors suspected they, unlike Kavinsky, knew where the Greywaren was.

 

* * *

 

“Quit that.”

Proko stopped gnawing on the side of his wrist. He’d broken the skin without noticing. Blood welled sluggish from the bites.

“Just accept it,” Skov continued. Head tilted far back, he was staring at the cavern ceiling through the bars of his cage. “No one’s coming for us.”

“What about Jiang?”

“Come on, man. Jiang’s not coming.”

Swan’s silence said he agreed.

There was another potential savior. Proko was reluctant to speak its name.

The dragon.

The dragon could save them. Kavinsky's blood had been shed. The dragon had no desire to see their flame extinguished. It would protect what it needed to see one of them survive.

 _Soon_ , the dragon said, its voice the roar of a forest fire, the crackling of a campfire, the hiss of water droplets on a stove.  _Soon_.

 

* * *

 

Hunger scraped at the walls of Proko's stomach. The mouthfuls of blood Swan had been giving him did nothing to stop the pain. He needed  _more_.

He chewed on his fingers, sucking on the torpid blood there. It tasted flat and thin, more plasma than red blood cells. He wanted real blood, fresh and hot.

His eyes slid to Swan. Swan had blood,  _fresh_ blood.

God, Swan's blood. It was Proko's favorite, boozy and strong. Even if Swan wouldn't let him take from the veins in his neck, where the blood ran fast, he let Proko  _take_.

Proko licked his lips.

"Just take it," Swan said.

Proko bit down on his thumb. "I shouldn't."

"But you want to."

Proko continued chewing on his thumb. He could wait. The faeries would tell them what they want from them soon. Then they'd give Swan food and Proko would be able to eat again.

 

* * *

 

Proko couldn't take it anymore. He was so hungry. Just a taste. Swan let him take mouthfuls all the time. He said it felt good, letting Proko drink from him. Sometimes he'd even kiss him afterwards and say he was glad Proko was taking from him and not someone else.

Proko swallowed. Just a taste. He was so hungry.

He pounced. Swan didn't even try to bat him away from his neck. The blood was hot there and good, devoid of Swan's usual alcoholic tinge but delicious nonetheless. It was so much better than Swan's wrist, so much more intimate. This was perfect. This was how it should be.

Within seconds, Proko knew he'd gone too far. Swan hadn't eaten in days, either. He was weak and dehydrated. Proko had taken too much, too fast, and his body was demanding  _more_.

Proko stopped himself. He licked the bite clean and pulled back.

"Shit," he said. "Shit, shit, shit. Swan, Swan, tell me you're okay."

Swan was not okay. He turned his head slowly to look at Proko, eyes dull with exhaustion.

"Perfect," he lied. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. His dark skin had gone grey.

Proko could still taste the blood in his mouth. He could feel the way it made his stomach bulge, all those pints Swan couldn't afford to lose.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to."

Swan raised a hand to caress Proko's cheek. "It's fine,  _cariño_. You needed it."

"Not that much."

Swan smiled sleepily. He closed his eyes and opened them slowly. "Let me feel you."

Proko scooted over to Swan, who laid a large hand on his belly.

"You're warm," Swan said. "That's good."

Proko wanted to cry. Swan shifted and put his head in Proko's lap. He drifted off, not dozing so much as passing out from blood loss, and then Proko really wanted to cry.

 

* * *

 

Swan was running a fever. His skin was cold, clammy. Sweat dripped down his temples. The color hadn't returned to his face.

Proko hadn't eaten in two days, too scared Swan couldn't spare the blood. He had been pale and sweaty all the while, mumbling that his skin felt scorching hot. Proko wrapped himself around him in hopes it would help him cool off.

It didn't.

"They must have poisoned the food," Skov said, "or jabbed him with something on the way in." It was a lie. He was trying to make Proko feel better. But Proko knew.

"What should I do?"

"Give him something to drink. He needs water."

They had been given some, just a little but enough to wet Swan's lips. Proko lifted the cup to them and urged Swan to swallow. Swan's eyes, when he opened them, were glazed with fever.

It was getting worse.

 

* * *

 

"Do you remember Ms. McCarthy?" Proko asked.

Swan laughed. "Ms. McKitty."

Neither of them had been able to pronounce her name. It had been unfair, really, for an ESL teacher to have a name like that with both an  _r_  and a  _th_.

"God, I was so bad at that class."

"You were bad at every class." Swan's eyelids were sinking down. Proko scooted closer, hoping the chill of his body would wake Swan up. "Except science. You were really good at that. Couldn't get more than a C in math but add a couple chemicals and shit and you had that down."

Proko smiled. Science was the only thing he had ever been good at. That and making Swan smile.

You wouldn't have thought they would become friends or that they would ever even get along. Proko had never had a black friend before. Swan had never tolerated stupid questions.

But when Swan signed up for AP Lit, Proko did, too. When Swan took to smoking behind the administrative building, Proko did, too. And when Swan bought a VW Golf, Proko did, too.

It was creepy and it was weird and it was obsessive, and Swan didn't mind, not even the tiniest bit.

"Fuck," Swan said. His skin was horribly grey, his fingers bloodless. Proko's not-quite-empty stomach churned with guilt.

He grabbed one of Swan's hands and placed it under his shirt, on the bare skin of his belly. Swan always liked that, liked pretending the warmth meant Proko was still alive.

Swan's sleepy eyelids lifted as if to say  _I'm still here_. Proko laid his head on his shoulder. He willed himself not to cry.

The dragon was coming. They just had to be patient.

The dragon would save them.

 

* * *

 

Proko remembered everything. He tried to forget- remembering your own murders, after all, wasn't the most pleasant experience- but he couldn't.

Proko's mom was into New Age shit. Angels, card reading, past lives, all that shit. She was always trying to wake up sleeping parts of herself, trying to understand the mysteries in this world. Proko always wanted her to stop. She was weird enough. People talked about the men she brought to the house, the fact that she was estranged from Proko's father, if she'd ever even been married to him.

Proko didn't believe any of her mystic crap.

Not until he met Swan.

He knew him, like he knew Hershey's chocolate when he came to the States and still couldn't read the funny letters. He knew him like he knew the man in the supermarket was from the same country he was, like he knew that the ladies down the hall, the ones who never got up before noon, were the same as his mother.

He knew him in the way you know things you can't know, the sharpness of eyebrows, the rolling of a consonant, the colors of brand name packaging. Swan was familiar and yet utterly alien.

Proko couldn't leave him alone.

The two of them barely spoke English, certainly not each other's languages nor anything in common, but somehow they communicated in their own way in that awful little classroom where a teacher taught them grammar and sentence structure, corrected their _th_ 's and _r_ 's. Swan was good at English, quick to learn. The only thing Proko was good at was making Swan smile.

Proko was in love before the year was out.

As time went on and Swan's features sharpened, Proko began to remember more. But not everything. It wouldn't be until Swan moved away and Proko had nothing to distract him that Proko remembered something crucial: how it was, exactly, that he had lived and died.

 

* * *

 

Once Proko had been living. Once he had been a dream. Once he had been dead.

No, that wasn't right. Proko had  _always_ been living and he had  _always_ been dead and he had  _always_ been a dream.

Or was it sometimes? Proko's hold on reality, like his creator's, his other self, had never been particularly strong.

And why should it be when you died and you didn't stay dead and your creator was god and lover and parent and  _you_ , most of all  _you_.

You couldn't cut out parts of yourself, not easily. You couldn't kill them, not successfully.

Because when you tried, something always endured.

Before, Proko's master killed him for sport, for pleasure, for fear of the monstrous, undying thing he had created. He'd kill and he'd edit and he'd destroy and when he dreamed, there Proko would be, playing with the dragon in the dream place. For the dragon was Proko and Proko was Kavinsky and Kavinsky was the dragon. One could exist without the others but it wasn't the creator.

Did he always know? Proko imagined he did.

When you've been alive and dead and alive and dead and alive and asleep, the lines between creator and destroyer blur. Proko’s god gaveth and he tooketh as he chose and it wasn’t up to Proko to ask why. He’d simply get up, see the bloodstains or the broken glass or the bullet casings, two, always two, he had to be sure, Proko’s god did nothing in halves, and be glad that this time he brought him back.

 _Dying's not so bad_ , Proko would tell the dragon as they played checkers.  _You won't have to wait anymore._

He would say that, then he'd do everything he could to make K let him live.

It was weird, after all that struggle, to find that being alive felt so wrong. It didn’t feel right, having parents or growing up. He was ageless, without a childhood, an immaculate conception, born from his god’s mind like Pallas Athene. He didn't belong of this earth.

It was especially cruel that his creator did not recognize him.

Proko sought him out, years of searching culminating in finding Morris, in finding Skov, in getting the slightest in, only to find his god was a fallen angel, cast from heaven, stripped of his powers. Even with prompting, he barely recognized his creation.

That was okay. Proko knew how it ended. Still, he was Proko’s and Proko was his and Proko wouldn’t let a pesky, little thing like reincarnation stop him from reminding Kavinsky of that fact.


	27. Chapter 27

Some stories never get a chance to be told. Some are assumed to be too mundane or too fantastical for human ears. Some wait for their teller to finish crafting them. Some have yet to reach a decisive end before they are cut short.

And some are held fast as secrets, never told because to tell them is to admit to things best left forgotten.

This is one of them.

Joseph Kavinsky had an unobjectively bad childhood. Unobjectively because some would say growing up with all the money in the world was not a bad thing. Unobjectively because money didn't change the fact that his mother refused to associate with him and his father couldn't stop.

Kavinsky never stopped loving his father but, by the time he was five years old, he had learned to fear him. He knew when to stay out of Daddy’s way, when the alchohol and the drugs or the just plain rage that defined his existence counterpoised with delight and laughter and happy words made little Joey a target rather than a son.

By ten, he blamed himself. By eleven, he blamed his mother. By twelve, he stopped blaming anybody because blame didn’t solve anything and it was easier sometimes to just take it.

So he dreamed of fire and mythical monsters, of a dragon to save him from this nightmare.

He dreamed, too, of a friend with the face of a Ukrainian rapper he saw once on TV. Someone to love and care for him, to never get angry or hateful. A companion who might, possibly, become something more.

And so the dragon, nameless, and Prokopenko, named, were born.


	28. Chapter 28

Two Days Ago

 

"I couldn't save you."

"What?"

"Before," Swan said. "I couldn't- I wasn't there. This time either."

"It's okay."

"It's not. I should have stopped him. I should have been there." Swan wheezed and coughed. Someone would come for them. They had to. Any second now, Jiang would burst through that door and get them out of here. "Why didn't you let me kill him?"

Proko's heart swooped. "You never tried."

"Not you, the puppet. He made another one, tried to pass it off."

Proko looked up. "You remember?"

"Yes."

He considered his words. "I am who I always was."

Swan took in a rattling breath, his lungs trying to cope with what little oxygen they could bring in.  _What?_  His eyes asked.  _What do you mean, Prokopenko?_

Proko looked away, fingers curling against his knee. "K didn't replace me. Like, like imagine you have a phone and the screen gets cracked and you get a new one. It's still the same phone, isn't it?"

Swan didn't look like he agreed.

It was a lot easier to explain this shit to Skov. Proko searched for his words.

"What do you remember, 'leek, about me before?" He had to keep talking, had to keep Swan from falling asleep. "Where did I come from?"

"Ukraine," Swan said.

"No," Proko said and this was a secret he'd held onto, one he and K kept wrapped up because it was nothing to create papers, nothing to forge social security numbers, nothing to convince the US government that Danylo Prokopenko hadn't simply stepped out of a fourteen-year-old's dreams.

How cruel it had been to wake up here and not know K's every thought. How empty and lonely it was to know by his very wakefulness that K was somewhere, just not there. How delirious Proko's happiness had been to find Swan of all people, younger but still undeniably Swan, and not be alone for the first time in this life. "I didn't come from anywhere."

Swan was gazing at him with blank eyes. As Proko watched, those eyes slid closed.

Panic gripped Proko.

"Swan," he said, "Swan, wake up."

Proko knew what he had to do.

Newly turned vamps were incredibly strong and impervious to many of the weaknesses they’d have once the change set in. Proko looked at Swan's sweating, shivering form. He didn't look good. They hadn’t been given food or water since yesterday.

How much longer could Swan last?

Proko rocked back and forth. He couldn't do it- but he had to. Swan didn't want to be turned- but he wasn't going to make it otherwise. Swan might not care but Proko wasn't letting him die here, not when it was his hands that'd be stained red.

Proko was going to do it.

Swan flinched when Proko's fangs touched his neck.

"Swan, you gotta let me. Come on, 'leek, this is your only chance."

Swan's eyes fixed on him. Hungry as Proko was, he could barely remember what that expression meant.

“Bite me,” Swan groaned. “Do it.”

And Proko did. He sank his teeth into Swan's neck, meaning to only transfer the poison but the blood was right there and he was so hungry. He took great, heaving gulps, feeling the hot blood rush to fill his stomach.

What was it Skov had said? How had K done it?

Drain the blood until there's hardly any left, then make them drink.

He could do that. Proko could do that. If Swan didn't want to he'd make him. Swan was not dying to keep him alive, not today.

Swan's heartbeat was fading. Proko pulled off, licking over the bite marks to make them heal. This was the hard part.

He sank his fangs into his wrist deep enough to draw blood and held it over Swan's mouth. This he remembered, clear as day. K over him, the smell of blood in a suddenly too bright, too loud world, focusing on the hunger that threatened to turn him inside out.

Swan had to feel the hunger.

“Please,” Proko said. “I need you, 'leek. I can't do this without you. You gotta drink.”

Blood trickled down Proko's wrist. He watched as it dropped slowly, oh so slowly down and hit Swan's handsome lips. Proko's bottom lip trembled. Swan wasn't moving. K was ash and bones on the other side of the cavern.

Another drop of blood hit Swan's lips. A hot tear escaped Proko's right eye. He sniffled and wiped at it with his uninjured hand. Swan's pulse was barely there.

“Skov, it's not working!”

Skov didn't answer.

The bite wouldn’t take if Swan fought it. He could die right here, right now and there was nothing Proko could do. If Swan fought this, Proko was going to be alone, with only Skov for company.

“Please,” Proko said.

The tears were flowing freely now.

“I can't lose you, too, 'leek. What 'm I supposed to do without you? You know I'm not good on my own.” Proko laughed miserably. He had always been too dependent on others. Ever since Swan had become ‘leek, a butchering of Maleek from back when English sat funny in Proko’s mouth, Proko had depended on him far too much.  “Can you imagine? Me, trying to do the laundry by myself or cooking dinner? I'd burn the whole apartment down.”

The blood in Proko's belly made him feel sick now. That was Swan's blood. He had taken it thinking Swan wouldn't choose otherwise. He'd just hastened the inevitable.

“I love you,” Proko said, laying his head down on Swan's chest, dampening his shirt with his tears. “I've loved you for a really long time. If you go, I'll find a way to go to. I can't- 'leek, I-“ His voice broke. Swan wasn’t waking up. He had failed.

With tears rolling down his cheeks, having lost one lover and about to lose the other, Proko fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

* * *

 

It's a question worth asking: do the undead dream? Jiang said he did. Jiang said many things.

Proko wasn't sure you can call what he did dreaming.

He's walking along a hallway that turns into a dirt path. Trees line either side, growing wilder as the path grows fainter. Proko feels both at home here and distinctly uncomfortable. This is not his kind of place.

He walks on.

The forest passes, becoming a drag track. It's empty, save for him, and the bulky figure on the other end.

(And the car but Proko ignores the car.)

Glass crunches underfoot. There are weeds here, growing among the trash and sprouting from cracks in the asphalt. The mark of human presence, neither beautiful nor considerate. It comforts him.

He walks on.

(He ignores the car. The front is crumpled against a wall. Proko expects, if he looks inside, he'll see his own face pressed against the steering wheel, a bruise forming across the bridge of his shattered nose, blood leaking from the gash upon his brow.)

He goes to the gray figure, kneels next to its reptilian head. He lays a hand upon its neck.

 _Hello_ , he says.

Bits of the dragon's neck crumble as ash under his hand. The beast is mostly ash now but Proko imagines there is still a red core if he looks hard enough. There is heat still.

 _I'm in trouble_ , he says.  _Won't you help me?_

The dragon breathes slowly, laboriously.  _I am dying, my friend_ , it seems to tell Proko.  _My existence was always more fragile than yours._

 _Help me_ , Proko says,  _or there will be aught left of us._

(He is smarter in dreams, less caught up in who his creator made him to be, more able to be who he is.)

 _He is gone_ , the dragon replies and it shifts its great bulk, not to reveal what lies underneath but merely to remind.  _My task is complete._

 _Help me_ , Proko insists,  _one last time. We used to play together. Do you remember when we used to play together?_

The dragon does not answer.

 _You say your task is complete_ , Proko snarls.  _It is not. In this world, it was stolen from you. You did not come for him and a faerie queen took your place. I charge you now to seek vengeance for that wrong. Help me now that you may die and I might live. Save_ me _._

The dragon peers at him with its ash grey eyes. Deep, deep within them, Proko spies an orange glow.

The dragon opens its mouth and swallows him whole.


	29. Chapter 29

Adam's cellphone rang. He glanced at the screen to check the caller ID, then let it ring. If it was important, they'd leave a message.

Adam's phone was no friend of his. He had several numbers blocked, was leery of a whole area code. He wouldn't take calls from unknown numbers. _You've reached Adam Parrish. I can't come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number after the beep._ If he heard certain voices, he'd delete the message immediately.

This was what having a past looked like.

He shouldn't have gone to that school.

 

* * *

 

All Adam wanted was to get an education. He did not want friends. He would not have minded enemies. He just wanted to get grades good enough to get him into an Ivy League, any Ivy League, so he could use its name to blot out the stain that was his childhood.

Friendships weren’t meant to last forever. That was a truism. They came and they went, and when they weren’t of any more use, you let them fade. When they were toxic, you threw them away.

It wasn’t any of their faults.

Adam couldn’t stand Henrietta after Noah died. He had seen the signs and he hadn’t done anything about Ronan’s friend. Like everyone else, he’d let Noah handle himself. Noah had, right up until Whelk stabbed him with a pocket knife and cut his heart out.

The newspapers spared the gory details. That was slightly harder to do when you were part of the search party.

What else could they do? Whelk was gone. Ronan wouldn’t listen to the police when they said they would catch him, so he left, too. There was nothing to be done.

There was nothing to be done.

There was nothing to be done.

“I’m busy, Persephone,” Adam said to the astral figure standing behind him. A moment ago, she hadn't been there. Now she was.

“Sorry,” she said in that soft, absent way of hers. She had next to no concept of what the word “sorry” meant, at least in relation to human beings. “This is important.”

Persephone didn't think many things were important. Adam turned in his swivel chair to face her.

Persephone Poldma or, rather, the astral projection of the spirit that called itself Persephone Poldma, floated a quarter inch above the ground. Her long, wavy, white-blonde hair was a cloud about her face. Her eyes were pitch black pools. Thin to the point of waifishness, wearing a dress made of rags and lace, she was almost ethereal.

“What is it?”

“They’re waking up. Can’t you feel it?” She smiled dreamily. Or sadly. It was hard to tell. With Persephone, everything was touched with sadness.

“Who?” Adam asked.

“Everyone.”

“Persephone, I really have homework to do…”

“We must hurry. If we don’t align it correctly, this world will be lost.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Adam, this world is not as it should be. There are those who seek to realign it. Without the proper guidance, they could destroy everything. They are pushing back, Adam. If they succeed, all of this-” Persephone gestured to Adam’s desk, to the room, to the universe. “-would cease to exist.”

Adam sighed. Really, it was more of a groan. He was so very tired of saving the world.

(Had he saved the world before? Adam felt like he had. He was too tired to remember.)

“What do you need me to do?” he asked.

Persephone held out her hand. “Come with me. It's time for a lesson.”

“Persephone,” Adam asked, the thought only occurring to him as his astral form exited his body, “where did I meet you?”

“In another time,” she said, “in another world.”


	30. Chapter 30

The tallest building in the world is the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two feet tall, it is roughly twice as tall as the Empire State Building. There is an observation deck on the 148th floor that, at various times, has been open to the public.

Gansey had visited the observation deck in 2010, months after it had first opened. Helen had just gotten her pilot's license and was unimpressed by the 360 degree view of the Dubai skyline and surrounding area. She had shrugged indifferently when Gansey pointed out the sand dunes and diminutive buildings. Gansey had found it a liberating experience.

He thought now of the elevator ride that had taken them back down. It was endless, a small, closed room with the stomach-swooping feeling of a descent hundreds of feet down.

This was that feeling, only slower.

Neeve led them down the foul-smelling staircase. The spiral had been narrow as they began. The longer they continued, the wider the spiral became until now it was a lazy loop, fatiguing in its slight gradient. The walls of the staircase had fallen away many hundreds of feet ago. The steps wound through the empty air without railing or balustrade. One misstep and you would plunge to the cavern floor below.

Gansey peered over the sides of the steps cautiously. He saw only a great brown expanse spotted with dark pools of an unidentifiable liquid.

It was incredibly quiet. Inhales and exhales swirled about Gansey in a quiet cacophony. Ronan coughed quietly. Loudest of all were shoes on steps and the click of SickSteve's nails. If not for his size, the haetae's graceless descent- a doggish hop-thump- would be comical. As it was, he exuded not quite danger but the promise of something close. Or worse, Gansey wasn't decided.

It had been quiet for a great while before Neeve broke the silence.

"You might be asking, where is the dragon's hoard? He cursed it, you see. Placed it in a pool that abhors the very essence of life. It is anathema to the fae. Every second spent inside it is a year off one's life." Neeve looked at Declan with dark amusement. "Do you think it will take you less than a hundred seconds to reach what you seek?"

"It must," Declan replied, holding her gaze, "if Piper hopes to get what she desires."

 

* * *

 

Ronan's knees ached by the time they reached the cavern floor. The dragon's rotting scent had long faded, replaced with the cool, wet notes of an underground lake. It spread in intermittent pools. Far in the distance, Ronan could hear the rush of water.

Somewhere in this massive chamber was a pool that contained the cintamani. They would find it and bring it to that woman. She would give them Matthew. Then, at last, their search would be at an end.

The footsteps were so silent none of them noticed the man before he spoke.

"I'll take it from here, Neeve. The queen desires your company."

For a second, Ronan was rendered immobile. Anger snarled inside him, seductive in its call for violence, a mad howl inside him threatening to break free.

_Whelk_.

Here was a man he could never forget.

Barrington Whelk, the smug asshole whose name Ronan had once known only because of the frequent Latin taunts they had flung at each other, was a person best left forgotten.

Ronan had tried to forget. He had tried so damn hard.

Five years ago, in the summer of 2013, Barrington Whelk went for a drive on a warm, summer afternoon with his good friend and shadow Noah Czerny. This was not unusual. The two were prone to exploring quaint, quiet Henrietta with its rolling hills and vast, underdeveloped tracts of land. They claimed their explorations had a purpose; were part of an inquiry into the strange occurrences of the area. Most assumed they went off to drink or engage in Walt Whitman-like activities in peace.

This walk was not like the others. Whelk's father had been arrested only days before. Their assets had been frozen. Whelk was supposed to spend the summer in the Aglionby dorms when his world had come crashing down. It was the sort of thing that turned a fragile mind, made hasty decisions reasonable. No one should have let Whelk be alone with the boy who was slated to continue the life of which he had been so abruptly robbed.

But they did and Whelk and Noah went for a drive. Only one of them came back, his hands steeped in blood.

It took a week for anyone to find the body and by thenWhelk had vanished.

Ronan hadn't believed Whelk when he said Noah had left early on vacation. He had found Noah's silence on the matter suspicious and had gone looking. He and Gansey had crawled all over Henrietta in search of links to the Holy Grail, Gansey because he believed in it and Ronan because he believed in Gansey, and he knew the places Noah went with Whelk.

Whelk made no effort to cover his tracks. It wasn't long before Ronan found Noah's Mustang out by the eerie, abandoned church in the woods. It was barely any time later that he found Noah, broken and beaten, and bloody, devoid of life and dignity.

The papers said Ronan went missing after that.

Ronan couldn't truthfully say where he went, only what he had meant to do: find Whelk and cut his heart from his chest in a perfect mimicry of what Whelk had done to Noah.

Ronan never found Whelk. After a while, he forgot to even look.

Declan said he had been here, in this shadow world, this _Elphyne_ , before. He said Ronan came here looking for Whelk. He had failed then.

He wouldn't fail now.

Ronan launched himself at the newcomer.

 

* * *

 

"Ronan!"

"It's Whelk! Don't you recognize him?" Ronan continued laying blows on the man while Gansey tried to drag him off.

"This is not how we deal with our problems!"

"He-" punch- "killed-" punch- "Noah! He butchered him!"

While Declan thought that was reason enough to turn a person's face inside out, this really wasn't the time. Declan shoved Jiang behind him.

"Wh- I can take care of myself!" Jiang hissed.

"Someone help me!" Gansey pleaded.

"Ronan," Declan said, keeping Jiang firmly behind him. "Let me speak to him."

"Lynch," Whelk replied, his voice thick from the blood pouring out of his broken nose. He looked far older than the last time they met. All the stories said Faerie kept you from aging but, as far as Declan could tell, it sped the process up. "How did you get here?"

It was a fair question. After finding Ronan and Matthew- who he had never forgot, not for a single fucking second, what kind of man was Niall Lynch that he could he do such a thing, Jesus fucking _Christ_ \- Declan had reopened the portal enough to slip through. Then he had mended the ragged edges of the tear Whelk and Ronan had caused, closing off the portal between worlds. In the process, he'd destroyed a good swath of forest and returned the ley line to dormancy but it was a small price to pay to ensure nothing else got through.

“No matter. You can fix this. You've trapped me here and I want out." Whelk looked about, paying no heed to the blood smeared across his face. “Where is Adam Parrish?” Whelk demanded. “He can fix this.”

Oh, Whelk. Fucking Whelk.

Declan had only known Noah Czerny in passing. A reckless boy, a little scatterbrained and a lot hyper, quite possibly suffering from undiagnosed ADHD, now that Declan thought of it, he had never stood a chance against Barrington Whelk.

They had shared a room and that had been a pity because roommates learned things about each other that might not otherwise had been shared. Whelk learned that Czerny was a follower. Czerny learned that Whelk was not above murder.

More's the pity, he learned it twice.

Declan looked at the man coolly. His fists itched to join his brother's. “Fix what, Whelk? You already had your second chance.”

 

* * *

 

“This isn't how it was supposed to be! I didn't ask for this!”

“Neither did I. Think, Whelk, how this could have possibly turned out better.”

Gansey was still barely holding Ronan back. SickSteve watched Whelk's and Declan's exchange with interest.

Something was turning in Jiang's head, the handle of a door that had been shut so long he'd forgotten what lay behind it.

Aglionby. It all came back to Aglionby. That little private school in Henrietta Jiang had attended to stay close to the energy source. It was where he had first met Declan but, more importantly, it was where he had first met Noah.

Noah. That was the yuan gui's name, wasn't it? Jiang knew he had known it, just as he knew the yuan gui recognized him as much as he did it.

Except Jiang hadn't known him as a yuan gui. Except he had. Except he had known a living boy with the yuan gui's form and he had not questioned that until now.

Jiang's head felt dark and fuzzy, the way it did when he was learning something new he didn't truly understand.

“Careful,” SickSteve murmured, keeping one eye on Whelk. “Don't want to hurt yourself.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” the xiezhi said with a smirk.

“Why are you here?” Jiang wanted to know. Really. "You don't seem to like this Cheng of yours and you don't know anyone here. You're certainly not helping.”

“Can't you feel it?” SickSteve asked. “How off everything is? Have you ever thought that this isn't the life you were supposed to live?” He nodded at Declan and Whelk. “Soon, they will show us why that is. When they do, my purpose here will be fulfilled.”

That sounded way more ominous than Jiang was comfortable with. “And what are you going to do with that information?”

“Share it. There are many who feel this way. Imagine the answer to such a mystery falling into your lap. Or don't. You and I are not so very much alike.”

 

* * *

 

“I survived. Do you know what that was like? The forest kept me alive.” Whelk was excited, his speech rapid. “I did something wrong with the first sacrifice. Still, it _knew_ me.”

“What first sacrifice?” Ronan asked. “Was there someone before Noah?”

Declan was strangely still. His jaw was set in a hard line.

This was a secret. A big one.

Whelk’s laugh was strangled, high-pitched, the sound of someone close to losing it. “Before Noah? There was only ever Noah. Don’t you see? I did it. I started it all over.”

“And you still messed it up,” Declan said coolly. “Whelk, I don’t have time for your games. Where is Matthew?”

“But I didn’t do it right. I shouldn’t be _here_. I should be out _there_.”

“You got what you asked for. A restart. You can’t give the same thing twice, Whelk. That’s why it didn’t work. You should have known that.”

“I didn’t give the same thing twice! The first time, I sacrificed my roommate. This time, Czerny was-” His words were cut off in a shriek. SickSteve’s mouth had closed around his hand. “Get off me, mongrel!” SickSteve didn't let go, just glared at Whelk.

“What was he, Whelk?” Ronan asked. SickSteve shook his shaggy head ‘no’. Ronan didn't care. Whatever secret SickSteve was trying to protect, Ronan needed to know. He needed to know why he found a rotting corpse where his friend should have been. He needed to know why Noah has been following him for five years, why no one would tell him the full truth about what happened all those years ago. “Was killing him not enough for you? What more did you have to do?”

Whelk’s shoulders sagged. “I loved him.”

SickSteve’s teeth clamped down harder. Whelk stifled a shriek. Blood welled between SickSteve’s teeth and stained his muzzle red.

“Alright, so I didn’t.” Whelk’s handsome features twisted into an awful grin. “But he loved me. He was never all that good-looking. He didn’t have too much confidence in himself. I didn’t enjoy it but it was so easy to take his virginity. It’s kind of funny, actually. You’d think a virgin sacrifice would be better.” Whelk’s grin spread, growing rakish. “I took it right there, right before I did it. You should have seen the look on his pathetic fa-”

Noah threw himself at Whelk.


	31. Chapter 31

Depending on where you began the story, it was about the death of a dream. To be specific, the dream that Noah Czerny could have a normal life. To be even more specific, the dream that he could _have_ a life, that seventeen wouldn't be both the beginning and the end.

Being omnipresent has its perks, Noah won't lie. But being alive would be better.

Blood sacrifice. Blood. Sacrifice. Sacrifice of blood. The term recalls images of shadowy figures and moonlit rituals, ancient religions and razor sharp blades. Noah died on a warm, summer's eve from blunt force trauma. The only mystic part of it was the betrayal.

But that was depressing and Noah Czerny didn't like depressing. It was apt to come out as anger and, when Noah got angry, things started to move. Instead, here's another story, one that is just as awful, though less depressing because in it, Noah is not the ill-fated protagonist. He's just a kid with a tricked out car, a beat up skateboard, and a crush on his roommate.

 

* * *

 

Where did it begin? Time isn't without meaning for Noah. It's simply devoid of purpose. He exists in every now and every when since the ley line first came to know power.

One when sticks out, a fracture across time and space with wide-ranging consequences. Even so, if it weren't for one event, Noah might not have even noticed.

When you have your own murder memorized, you tend to notice when an encore deviates from the script.

 

* * *

 

"Unlock your door," Whelk said. "We're doing the ritual."

Sometimes Noah remembered he had been murdered and the anger swirled in his chest like a swarm of wasps. It would rip free and shatter windows, knock light fixtures off the walls, tear skin to shreds. When it was bad enough, he would forget where he was and lash out, scratching Ronan, scaring Blue, always, always hurting the ones he cared about most. _What did it matter_ , his mind would offer, _that he cared for them?_

He had cared for Whelk.

He lay the groundwork early. Noah, when he first came across the deviation, thought it was a fantasy of how things could have been. Imagination was hard to separate from memory in his current state.

The kiss had been as soft as a dream. Their heads bowed over a map traced with possible ley lines, Whelk pointing and suggesting another place to visit, softly chiding Noah over his handwriting, Noah making it worse just to make Whelk squint. There was no warning before Whelk's thick lips pressed against his own. Startled, Noah jerked back from the kiss. Whelk had never once let on that he returned Noah's feelings. He knew, he was too observant not to, and he teased Noah about it.

"What, not good enough for you, Czerny?"

The lines had never been less clear.

He was decaying. He had been for years. The dreams could no longer be fully sorted from the memories. He was alive and, yet, he was completely, utterly, irrevocably dead.

Ronan seemed like a dream, too. Noah was there. He was real. He was the person he had been when he was alive and that all spilled out, the happiness, the energy. They battled with their cars, talked late into the night, laughed and laughed and laughed.

If Noah had allowed it, there was one person who could have told him from the start that this was no dream.  
The Chinese kid who used to stare at him. In Noah's happiness, it did not seem strange that he could meet him on the ley line one day and the classroom the next. It seemed perfectly normal that the Chinese kid was, in fact, a zombie and not a kid at all. If the zombie realized that Noah existed now and then, in an unending loop of fractured time, he did not think it.

Willful ignorance. That's what it was. Noah didn't want to know what was to come and so he pushed it away.

Still, he knew. The zombie was important. He would do something someday and the repercussions would tie them together. They would be the supporting characters in someone else's play.

None of that bothered Noah. He had spent an eternity being a footnote in someone else's story.

His murder, after all, had been the beginning of Whelk's.

Noah watched as Whelk set the trap and led him right into it. He stared curiously as Whelk kissed him in the high grass, no sign of murder in his large eyes. There was no skateboard this time. Whelk's eyes were calm and his hands steady.

One reality for another. A second chance.

As Noah's blood fed a portal into another world, Noah felt no satisfaction in knowing how it all would end.


	32. Chapter 32

Whelk slammed into the floor, Noah on top of him.

"Czerny?" Whelk gasped. "Is it you? I-"

"Shut up," Noah screamed, "shut up, shut up, shut up!" With each repetition, the air around them grew wilder. Rocks were loosened from the cavern walls. Waves splashed against the edges of the manifold pools. Torch flames guttered.

There, in the eye of Noah's storm, the queen of the fae appeared.

Her dress was gone, replaced with sensible leggings and a snug jacket. Thick boots covered her small feet. By far the most alarming change was the gun in her hand, a sleek Mark 23.

Noah and Whelk stilled, both turning to stare at the barrel of the gun pointed straight at them. With Noah still on top of Whelk, the angle of Piper's trajectory would hit them both.

"My queen," Whelk said.

Piper's eyes were flint.

The gunshot was the loudest Ronan had ever heard. The bullet went straight through Noah, piercing Whelk in the heart. His head fell back, hitting the stone floor with a crack. Noah looked up, staring at Ronan with wide, shocked eyes. A single word spilled from his lips, _Opal_.

Then he was gone, dissipated quick as a puff of smoke.

“God,” Piper said, nudging Whelk's body with the toe of her boot, “he got annoying ages ago.”

"As did you," she added, pivoting on the ball of her foot, the movement so fast Neeve was only able to move the slightest inch before the bullet tore through her skull. She dropped to the ground, lifeless, the backside of her head blown open.

"Little known fact," Piper said, wiping her gun on the bottom of her jacket, "it's very difficult to kill a person with magic. Much easier to use a gun. Although far less satisfying." Piper's expression remained terminally bored as she pointed the gun at the four of them. “Now that that's done, I suggest, if you want to see your brother again, you get the cintamani for me.”

 

* * *

 

"What should we be looking for?" Gansey asked. "An entrance of some sort?" He meant to Shambhala, a hidden city where the cintamani was rumored to be kept. Ronan was surprised he remembered that. Trust Gansey's lectures to stick.

"You'll know what it is when you see it," Piper said. "There is nothing else like it."

"You've never seen it," Ronan guessed.

Piper's eyes flashed. "Be careful what you say to me, boy."


	33. Chapter 33

The portal, ever unreliable, let them through in a dusty tower of the fae stronghold. It was not the safest place in all of Elphyne although one in which Ashley, with her drop or two of fae blood, wasn't entirely unwelcome. With the mirror, they would have no trouble disguising themselves as two low-ranking fae.

“Do exactly as I do,” Ashley told Blue. “Whisper in my ear every five minutes. Laugh when I tell you to laugh. The fae are always laughing.”

“Act like an idiot, then.”

“Act,” Ashley said, her very words a reproach, “like you belong.”

Ashley had little glamour. It would have to be enough. The line was direct, if not pure. The barest of magics, it was a throwback to the fae lord who had whisked her many times great-grandmother away and gifted her with a child. That was the story as the men of the family told it. The women told a different story.

They said that the father had claimed the child as his due. Six days after it was born, the day before it was to be named, he came for the child. While its mother slept, the fae lord took the child. The mother was distraught. For many days after, she heard the child’s wailing. She left her home, determined to find her child and bring him back. She wandered the land, searching for child. One day, she returned to her village with the babe in her arms. She had tricked the fae into returning her stolen child. As punishment, the father had banished her from not just the fae lands but all of Elphyne. He had sworn that, should she or the child ere return, their line would be cursed.

They hadn’t and here Ashley was. The fae were known to be particular in their wording. No harm would come to Ashley by virtue of being Melisant’s granddaughter.

They glided through the cold, stone halls. Wonders were around every turn, wonders that disappeared the second Ashley focused upon them. Fae-human hybrids, while able to wield it, had the unfortunate pleasure of near-total immunity to glamour. Ashley could only see them now because of Blue. They continued on.

Where could Declan have gone?

 

* * *

 

A hand touched Blue's arm.

"Let me go!" she yelped. She kicked out and suddenly found herself frozen. She slid her eyes to the side. Three men, triplets by the look of them, held her fast. One by physical force, one by magic. Blue assumed the third held her, as well. In truth, he simply appeared to be standing there, smoking a cigarette.

"Laumonier," Ashley said. "We are pleased to make your acquaintance." She dipped a bow perfect in its insolence.

Laumonier was not similarly pleased.

"How did you manage to get in here undetected?" the Laumonier gripping Blue's arm asked. "A huntress. One of yours?" The Laumonier who was a hair's breadth shorter pursed his overly full lips. The Laumonier holding Blue sneered. "And a _tir e e'linte_." The other two frowned. "I had thought your kind died out."

"We're still alive, asswipe."

"Clearly."

The Laumonier standing off to the side tapped his cigarette on a golden ashtray he held in his other hand. He glanced off to the side, eyes unfocused. "Piper needs us."

"Are you just going to let them win?"

Ashley looked unperturbed by Blue's accusation. "Why not? They're going to take us right where we need to be."

She was right. Laumonier was reciting an incantation. Their voices did a good job of harmonizing with one another in an astonishingly creepy way.

Blue groaned when she saw what the incantation was for. She was coming to realize she really didn't like portals.

 

* * *

 

"I'm the youngest among us," Gansey argued. "Let me do it."

"No," Ronan said. "It should be me or Declan. Matthew's our brother."

The arguing continued like this as they ranged about the pool. Gold and silver ornaments glittered deep below. There were precious stones of every type- sapphires, amber, tourmaline, lapis lazuli, jade. Pearls and rubies rested in mounds on the shelves formed by the uneven rock walls. Serendibites were dark coals among the hoard.

And there, in the very center, was what they were after.

Jiang had only to look at the jewel in the pool's depths to recognize it for what it really was.

The fox thought they were stupid, calling it a _yeouiju_. Oh, it could turn him human alright.

The as-you-wish-it jewel could do anything.

Jiang approached the pool.

"I wouldn't do that," a tinkling voice said. It belonged to a water nymph, sitting in the shadows on the far side of the pool. The shadows shifted and Jiang saw that she was pale as moonlight and clad only in a thin shift. Her lips were the blue of a drowned body, her fingers wrinkled. "Even one second in there will take a year off your life."

"Of course," she added, picking a knot out of her long, white hair, "you could gain it back _if_ you reach the bottom. It's deeper than it looks."

Jiang looked at the cintamani nestled among the other treasures.

"I think I'm good."

He jumped in.

 

* * *

 

It was the coldest water he'd ever felt. Air escaped from his lungs in a great rush of bubbles, his mouth frozen open with the shock.

The water was thick as syrup. It stuck to his arms, made it difficult to kick his legs.

Jiang kept going.

Syrup turned to molasses turned to tar. The deeper he went, the harder movement became.

It was when his eyes started to fail that Jiang began to believe the nymph's words.

Jiang never struggled with feeding off of humans. Humans had created him: they could pay the price for his continued existence.

It wasn't until Henrietta and Declan that Jiang began thinking there might be another way. He had already been relying on natural sources of power to supplement his diet. Henrietta was much stronger than other places. With Declan's family tending the ley line, Jiang could wean himself off humans.

It hadn't been pretty. Jiang had gone hungry before, his body reverting to a more corpse-like form.

The first time Declan told him to feed off him, Jiang had barely begun to age.

Jiang laughed, a burble of air escaping into the murky waters. He was going to look like hell when he got out of here.

He reached out and grasped the cintamani in both hands before wrenching it free of the other treasures. Golden rings and precious jewels were dragged up by Jiang's force. They danced prettily enough, Jiang's eyes only able to make out patches of color here and there.

With the strength of an old man, Jiang kicked his feet against the hoard and began his ascent.

 

* * *

 

"Ronan, if he hadn't, I would have gone in for you."

Animus washed over Ronan and bile. "Shut up, Gansey."

Gansey did, for five seconds. Then: "Why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't."

"You won't talk to me."

Ronan stared at him in disbelief. "Jesus Mary, Gansey," he snarled. "You _left._ Alright? You left. You were too much of a coward to stay after Noah. You and Adam just fucking up and _went_. Blue and I got left behind. Adam hasn't been back to Henrietta once in five years. Why do you keep acting like there's anything left of our "friendship" to save?"

"Ronan," Gansey pleaded, "don't be like this."

"Like what, Gansey? Like shit's fucked? Guess what- it is."

Gansey had something he wanted to say.

"Spill it," Ronan said.

"You were gone!" Gansey yelled. "We couldn't find you! Adam said you had to have gone after Whelk. What were we supposed to do? We did what we could. We told the police it must have been Whelk; it couldn't have been you. But no one could reach you. Declan wouldn't answer his phone or his emails. You didn't come back till August, Ronan. Adam and I had already moved into the dorms by then."

"And what, you just left Blue?" There was no reason to ask or even to bring it up. Ronan did anyway.

"Blue cared about Noah as much as the rest of us. She- I don't know. We drifted apart. She blamed her mothers for not telling her what was to come." Gansey's gaze unfocused. "We should have known, Ronan. You were the one who always talked about Whelk like he was some kind of monster. If we'd pai-"

"Stop talking," Ronan said.

"This is important," Gansey replied, affronted.

"So is that."

Ronan pointed at the portal opening in the cavern wall.

 

* * *

 

As Jiang swam downwards, he could feel his strength diminishing with each stroke. He kept going, even as his eyesight blurred and dimmed, as his limbs became stiff, as the very life was sucked from him. If he could just grab the jewel, he could set things right.

Set things right. That was all he wanted. Matthew Lynch had been used as a pawn too often. Proko's happiness had been ripped from him time and time again. And the others- Swan, Skov, K, Declan, Lynch- none of them were okay. They were all suffering.

Don't stop the suffering, Jiang thought suddenly, afraid if he didn't, the jewel would sever all connections to do it for him. None of them were meant to be saints. Just...lessen the suffering. Make it more bearable.

They had been happier once. That was what Jiang wanted. Safety, security, happiness that would stay.

Declan.

He wanted him, too. At the very least so he could be the one to walk away. If things were to end, it would be Jiang who chose when and how and where. He couldn't bear this need to come crawling back to someone who had hurt him. Let him be the one who hurt.

As he swam upwards, his arm locked around the cintamani, his eyesight gone, he lost the last of his strength. All that was left was to float.

And so he floated. Up through the icy, gradually warming water. His thoughts were relaxed, slow. It was nice, floating.

Hands grabbed him as he reached the top. Someone gasped. Declan pulled Jiang into his chest, rubbing his hands up and down his shivering form. Jiang thought idly he must have gotten too comfortably lately if his body remembered to shiver.

"Idiot," Declan said, his voice thick. Jiang could hear his heart pounding through his chest as he tightened his grip. "Moron. Were you going to let yourself become a corpse?"

"I got it." Jiang showed him the cintamani.

Declan barely even looked at it. He grabbed Jiang by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a bruising kiss.

"Don't _do_ shit like that. I am not," Declan said with a fierceness that made Jiang's dead heart pound, "prepared to lose you again."

Jiang stared. His eyesight was almost completely blurred over but he still stared.

"We're talking about this," Jiang told him. "When all this is over, you and me are going to sit down and you are going to tell me the truth."

"If I survive this."

"Oh, you're going to survive this. If you don't, I'm going to find myself a priest and you are coming back because there are things, Declan Lynch, for which you owe me an explanation."

Declan's throat worked. Jiang stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

"I never stopped wanting you," he said, leaning their foreheads together. “If you know one thing, know that.”

Declan took a ragged breath. He pulled away. "You could have died for good, you idiot." There was no harshness or reproach in his voice, only exasperated relief. "Take from me," he ordered.

Jiang didn't need to be told twice. In point of fact, he didn't just take from Declan but everyone else, especially that powerhouse of a witch who definitely wouldn't miss it.

The palpable fear emanating from the others in the room lessened as Jiang's strength returned to him. When he was sapped like that, Jiang resembled the oldest, creepiest starvation victim: green-tinged skin stretched over bones, eyes filmed over with cataracts, fingers and toes knobby with arthritis.

It wasn't a good look, nor Jiang's favorite.

If he had the choice, Jiang would have spent the next hour in Declan's embrace. He pressed his face into Declan's warm, dry shoulder and tried not to shiver from the thrill of contact. Declan's chin came to rest on the wet crown of his head.

Just as suddenly as it occurred, the moment was over.

“Get behind me,” Declan said, thrusting Jiang out of his arms.

Three men stepped through the portal. They were nearly identical, only the differences in their energy signatures marking them as three separate beings. Highly in sync but separate nonetheless. The most violently-inclined of the three had a woman's arm twisted in his grasp. The least held another woman by her spiky hair.

The first woman, who had bleached blonde hair and three tiny piercings in each ear, pursed her lips. "Really, Declan, you couldn't save yourself?" Unconcerned by the vicious hold her captor had her arm in, she cocked an eyebrow. "I see you found what you've been looking for."

“Whom,” Declan said, keeping his arm slung in front of Jiang protectively. Jiang looked up at him. His dead heart pounded with sense memory. The blonde woman was a hunter. That doubled the acceptable amount of hunters in the room. While Jiang couldn't trust that neither of them would hurt him, at least he knew one wouldn't mean to.

"Who are you?" Ronan asked.

"Ashley," the woman said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. It was quite a grand gesture for someone so plainly out of control of their situation. "We've met before."

Ronan's face said he had never seen this woman before in his life.

"She's due to marry Helen in July," Gansey told him softly.

"That I am. How are you, my soon-to-be baby brother? Still chasing the magical, I see."

There is a strangeness in coming back to someone's life after time away. New connections have been forged, new experiences lived, and you're there, trying to find your place in it.

Ronan is certain, if he has met this woman before, it was not because of Helen Gansey.

"Jane?"

"Hi," Blue Sargent said, lifting her head with a wince.

"Where-"

"She's with my mother. Making sure she still had a father seemed slightly more important than spending every waking moment with your daughter." Bitterness flooded her voice.

"Daughter," Laumonier said, Blue Sargent's hair gripped firmly in his hand, "are you in need of assistance?"

Piper rolled her eyes. "Not particularly."

"It would seem otherwise." In a conversational tone, Laumonier added, "The _farfadets_ say you've dispatched both of your magicians."

"They were growing old." Piper sniffed. "I'm after stronger magics now."

"Wasn't the human woman working necromantic arts?" Laumonier asked himself.

"Indeed," he answered.

"Piper," the third Laumonier said, "do you really think using that cursed jewel is the best course of action? We could find you another consort..."

"I'm not interested in another consort!" Piper protested hotly.

"Lord Colin is already beginning to rot, Piper!"

"And? The cintamani will fix all that. If you want to be useful, take it from him!"

"Whatever you do," Declan told Jiang under his breath, "do not give her that jewel."

"I take it you've killed another one of your husbands?" he called to Piper.

She sneered. "It was an accident."

"Of course. It's perfectly normal to cycle through, what is it now? Twenty, thirty husbands in a half century."

"He was a better companion than you would have been," Piper said acidly.

Declan opened his hands in a gesture of complacency. "I'm sure." His good humor faded. "You're not bringing Greenmantle back."

"I will do as I wish, hunter. It's a little late to be avenging that father of yours." She flapped a hand at Laumonier. "Thanks for your help, Dad. You can leave now. Take the hunter and the tree with you." Piper turned to Jiang. She extended her hand. "If you want any hope of seeing the changeling again, you'll give that jewel to me."

Jiang stepped out from behind from Declan. Even as he moved, the cataracts retreated from his eyes, leaving a clear, brown gaze. He held the cintamani loosely in his left hand. "Yeah, how about no."

"What are you doing?" Ronan hissed.

Jiang weighed the jewel in his hand.

"I know what this is," he said, keeping his gaze fixed on Piper. "Probably more than anyone here. And I don't see how it benefits me to give it to you. But maybe I'm a little distracted, 'cause I'm racking my brain and I'm trying, I really am, to find a good reason why you and that woman you just killed would be covered in my friend's blood." When Piper didn't answer, a bitter smile bloomed across Jiang's face. "That's what I thought. You're not getting this jewel." His hand closed around it. "Because, as another one of my missing friends would say, guess what? We don't need you to get what we want."

Pipers pretty face settled into an ugly scowl. She raised her hand, thumb and forefinger coming together. "Give me the cintamani or there will be consequences."

Jiang's laughter was as hoarse as it was mirthless. "Consequences? Consequences? There is nothing you can do to me, human, that I can't undo." He shot first Declan, then Ronan a harsh look. "That's right. She's human. I tried to tell you but I guess you didn't feel like listening to me." He held Ronan's gaze as he said, "You should really start paying attention to what I say."

"I could destroy you," Piper said.

Jiang smiled crookedly. "You could try."

 

* * *

 

Ashley took that moment to attack.

She threw her heel back, hitting Laumonier in the groin. With a string of expletives, he let her go. Ashley lurched, seemingly off-balance, only to right herself and connect her fist with Piper's face. She ducked the blast of dark power Piper flung her way. Cursing, Ashley swung her beautiful, blonde head around. "Jiangshi! I could use some help!"

Blue did not know who she meant by "jiangshi" but, within seconds, the room became incredibly cold. It was the energy being sucked from the chamber...and from Blue. She had felt this before, when workings had gone on too long with one of her more advanced relatives. Blue was a natural amplifier. She was the table everyone wanted at Starbucks.

The jiangshi was rendering that aspect of herself void. It was a giddy, powerful feeling. She was not simply a tool for others to use. She was a person whose identity was as valid as any other of the women of Fox Way.

She was Blue Sargent, amplifier, _tir e e'linte_. She was never meant to be a tool of the witches.

"Blue," Ashley said, tearing Blue from her wondrous reverie, "do you know how to use a knife?"

"Of course."

Ashley tossed a pink switchblade to her.

 

* * *

 

"Ronan," Declan said, his voice barely audible amidst the clamor. "Ashley has the situation under control. We need to find Matthew."

Ashley was a whirlwind of controlled motion. She leapt onto one of the Laumonier's shoulders and wrapped her legs tightly about his neck before flinging her weight backwards and slamming him to the ground. She thrust a wrought iron poker through his neck. Blood sprayed out, drenching her front and chin.

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, which only served to smear the blood into a ghoulish grin.

The two remaining Laumonier bared their teeth and circled closer. Ashley raised her poker.

"First chance you get, take the cintamani from Jiang. All you have to do is think about Matthew and it'll take you to him."

"Right, I'll just rip it from his fingers."

"He'll give it to you."

"Declan," Ronan said, "what did you mean when you said Dad had no thirdborn child?"

"What do you think I meant? Who is Opal to you, Ronan?"

In the deepest, darkest parts of himself, Ronan knew the answer. He didn't like it, preferred the story he'd created, the lie he'd told himself so long it had become a truth.

"She's my daughter."

"Funny how you get to choose what people are to you." It didn't sound like Declan derived any amusement from this. He just sounded tired. "The rest of us just get to live with the aftermath. Go, Ronan. I have a lot more experience fighting the fae."

_"Who is Opal to you, Ronan?"_

What did that mean?

_"My father had no thirdborn child."_

No.

No.

 _No_.

This couldn't be real.

 

And yet it was. Ronan had to get the cintamani and use it to find Matthew. At this point, nothing else mattered.

Jiang still had it in his grasp. Declan was doing his best to shield him from Laumonier and Piper. Ashley and Blue were attacking from the sides. There was no opening for Ronan.

He was about to jump into the fray when it happened. A blast of sunlight hit Jiang full in the face and he went down, the cintamani skittering from his grasp. It shot across the floor, stopping, almost preternaturally, at Ronan's feet. He knelt to pick it up.

It was warm to the touch, a glittering, red-blue-green opal. Ronan was struck by how much it resembled dream stuff.

Ronan only barely remembered Gansey's stories about the jewel. A stone of celestial or marine origin, revered in Hinduism and Buddhism. Hindu gods and Buddhist saints were occasionally shown holding the jewel. Perhaps the most staying stories in Ronan's mind were the ones about the magical creatures affiliated with it. Lung Ta, the flying horse. Makara, the crocodile monster. And dragons. Dragons were known to grasp the orb between their claws and teeth.

What if Ryang hadn't been searching in vain? A dragon had lived here once. It had cursed its treasure hoard so that only the longest lived of beings had a chance of recovering it.

Ronan couldn't find Matthew under his own power. He had no idea where to start.

A wish-fulfilling jewel. A Holy Grail.

Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn't. He could only try.

Ronan looked at the cintamani. He looked at the Laumonier and the confusion in the room. No one had noticed that the cintamani had changed hands. Declan was fending Piper off of Jiang's prone form while Blue and Ashley took on the remaining Laumonier No one would notice Ronan was gone. It was worth a shot.

"Take me," he said, "to Matthew."

The light went out of the cavern and all the sound with it. A glowing, green path appeared, dots leading away into the dark. Clutching the jewel in his right hand, Ronan followed the shimmering path into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

"Get on my back," SickSteve told Gansey. "Now."

Gansey was not one for following others' orders but there was something about a human-sized dog monster that made heeding them quite easy. He clambered onto SickSteve's back and twisted his hands in the haetae's mane.

SickSteve offered no explanation for his behavior. He simply ran. Gansey clutched his mane as they raced through chamber after chamber, SickSteve easily conjuring and leaping through portals. He made frustrated sounds the longer this went on.

"What are you looking for?" Gansey asked.

"This," SickSteve said, coming to a stop in front of a pool of inky black liquid. Its rim glittered with pale gypsum crystals. "The Lake of Memory." He plunged his muzzle into the dark water and drank in great, heaving gulps.

He growled. Then he tilted his head back and roared.

"Why isn't it working?!" The words were to no one and everyone.

"What is it supposed to do?" Gansey hedged, disturbed by SickSteve's outburst.

"I'm supposed to remember!"

"Remember what?"

SickSteve groaned, shifting into human form. He sat at the edge of the lake and clutched his head for a moment. He dropped his hands and stared into its depths. "Everything. Don't you ever feel like life isn't supposed to be like this? That something isn't right? I know you, Gansey, even though I shouldn't. Cheng has never once shown me a picture of your face and yet the second I laid eyes on you four, I recognized every single one. You, Gansey, most especially. Can you honestly say that that doesn't mean something?" SickSteve shook his head. "Don't answer that. I don't need you to agree with what I already know."

Gansey felt chided. He barely knew SickSteve and yet he had the unwavering feeling that SickSteve disliked him. Not for anything he had done, simply for who he was.

It was in that dislike, however, that Gansey came to feel he _might_ know SickSteve.

Gansey had always been well-liked. It was not an attribute that came without effort but it was one that came naturally. It was, therefore, rather noticeable when people did not find Richard Campbell Gansey III appealing. He'd paste a winning smile across his face, do everything in his power to please them, and still they would not be pleased. Gansey had no illusions that SickSteve was a generally likeable or affectionate person. He seemed rather on the opposite side of things, in fact. In conjunction with everything else about him- his name, his Koreanness, his association with not simply Henry Cheng, Gansey's long-lost love, but a whole host of vaguely amicable characters, SickSteve was incredibly, almost unnervingly, familiar.

"What if I did agree with you?"

SickSteve raised an eyebrow. It was quickly washed away by his transformation back into a haetae. Gansey marveled that he had not noticed the miniscule horns poking through SickSteve's mane prior.

"Get on my back."

 

* * *

 

They were losing badly. Declan had never been one for melee fighting and without Jiang's mitigating presence, Laumonier and Piper were able to recoup their strength.

Why couldn't Jiang have come right out and said it? No, Declan couldn't blame his erstwhile, sometimes lover for this. He should have realized Piper was fae raised, not born, and thus not subject to their mores. It certainly explained why the fae, a dying race, had become so bold and unpredictable in the last hundred years.

Ashley's shirt had been burned away, revealing an enormous, magical burn on her side. She continued to fight but every motion was less controlled, more reckless.

Jiang still hadn't recovered. _He's fine_ , Declan reminded himself, resolutely not looking at the spot where Jiang lay. _Concentrated sunlight can't kill or even hurt him that bad._ Declan's heart thudded in his chest, his every instinct screaming at him that that was a lie.

Using an empty bottle from his bag, he scooped water from the cursed pool and threw it at Piper. She shrieked as the water hit her, turning her skin patchy and grey. The effect didn't last long. Even in the midst of fighting, she was fae. Glamour was second nature.

Fuck. He didn't have an ounce of iron on him. He hadn't come here looking for a fight.

Holding it like a baseball bat, Ashley smashed Laumonier in the stomach with her poker. He bent over with an _oof_.

This distracted the other Laumonier long enough for Blue Sargent to slash him across the face with her pocket knife. As the ichor ran down his cheek, Declan expected her to be cut down. He prepared to fling a throwing knife at Laumonier when they stopped short.

Two parts stared in shock at the third, who had lain unmoving on the ground for some time. They summoned a portal and were abruptly gone, leaving the dead man.

Piper screamed curses at them. She kicked the prone body of the third.

"This isn't over," she snarled at Declan. "You _will_ bring me that cintamani." With a snap of her fingers, she, too, vanished.

 

* * *

 

What they found upon their return was carnage. Blood painted the cavern floor and the rim of the pool. One Laumonier lay face down in a puddle of his own, golden ichor. The queen and the two other Laumonier were nowhere to be seen.

"Are you alright?" Gansey asked. "Where's Ronan?"

Declan, holding an unconscious Jiang across his lap, made an incomprehensible gesture.

"He took the stone," Ashley said. "We have to assume he went after Matthew."

"And the queen?"

"Gone. She'll be back once she gathers her strength. We should get moving," she added to Declan.

Declan shook his head. He was pouring a bright yellow liquid into Jiang's mouth. "Until Ronan comes back, we're staying here."

SickSteve chose that moment to stalk over to Blue. "Why didn't it work?!" he demanded.

Blue looked startled for a second before her expression shifted. She craned her neck to scowl up at SickSteve. "Why didn't _what_ work?"

"The memories," SickSteve huffed, obviously agitated. "I went to the pool. I drank from it. Why haven't they come back?" He sniffed the air suddenly. "It's Parrish, isn't it? He's the missing piece. Where is he?"

"Parrish?" Blue echoed.

"Adam's a long way from here," Gansey said.

"Where? I can go get him." SickSteve's eyes had gone past fierce into fevered.

"That isn't necessary," Ashley said, smiling in that polite way of Helen's that meant she'd gladly skewer SickSteve if he crossed one more line. "Everything is going to work out."

"This is more important than the dreamchild-"

"And I said it is going to work out. The witches know what they need to do."


	34. Chapter 34

“Things are not as they should be,” Persephone said.

“And how should they be?” Adam asked.

“Different. Other.”

The fabric of the worlds was loose here, galaxies of possibility in the weft. Adam felt he could reach out and, with a turn of his wrist, destroy the entire cosmos.

He touched a strand of reality, just the barest tap, and felt the echo of a life long past and the promise of a life to come.

"You can undo it," Persephone said, wearing Maura's face. "All that he did."

"What would happen to this life then? Would it disappear?" Adam thought of his foster family, of the system that had gotten him out of his parents' home, of the needs based scholarship to the Ivy League of his dreams.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

There must be an in-between, a way to undo Whelk's tampering without sacrificing the achievements of this life.

"You could awaken their past lives."

No, Adam didn't think that was the right solution. The more he thought about it, the less it seemed like it _was_ a past life. More like he had only lived part of this life and part of another. The harder he concentrated on his early years, the hazier they became. And yet, standing here, he remembered Henrietta so clearly.

He closed his eyes and felt something approach the edges of his senses. He opened his eyes.

"Noah," Adam said.

"Hi," Noah agreed.

Adam's chest felt tight. He knew it was possible but possible and seeing your five-year-dead friend were entirely different things.

"Seven."

"Excuse me?"

"I've been dead seven years."

A memory fluttered across Adam's mind. He glanced at Persephone, who nodded.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Adam asked because _sorry_ didn't encompass everything he wanted to say.

Noah took a moment to find his words. His fingers fluttered nervously at his sides. "Tell Ronan- tell him to take care of Opal. If not for her sake, for mine."

Adam frowned. For Noah's? Then it clicked. Ronan had always claimed Opal was the product of a human mother. They had believed him because the Ronan they had known would never lie.

Opal's elfin eyes told another story, as did the color of her hair and her energy. She had never looked anything like Ronan, only resembled him in her temper and speech. Physically, she was Noah's through and through.

"I will," Adam said.

Noah flickered out.

Adam knew what he had to do.

 

* * *

 

 _Omnia mutantur, nihil interit._ Everything changes, nothing perishes. They had always remembered parts, now they would remember all.

Adam pulled the thread and the veil covering the world began to unravel.


	35. Chapter 35

The wave hit. A monumental crescendo of energy, it burned away the partitions of the mind, the certainty that this world was the only one that had ever existed.

It swept through Elphyne, Henrietta, Annandale, Baltimore. Everyone who had ever been touched by Whelk's machinations felt it, a dark pummeling of power, the last vestiges of Adam Parrish's bargain with a long-decimated forest.

 

* * *

 

Orla Sargent paused, her pen point hovering above her planchette, then nodded. She had known this day would come. Was it necessary? No. But necessary and fated were two very different things.

As the memories came flooding in, she began to write.

 

* * *

 

Swan, in the space between life and death, viewed the wave with detached interest. What did it matter, what had been? He wanted nothing to do with any of it.

Then he caught a glimpse of that other, worse life and knew it to be true. He saw the forgery at the center of it, similar but not _right_ , and he saw the choice he had made before. Inaction had seemed the only course. He could not undo what Kavinsky had done. If he drank enough, if he stopped trying to see the differences, it was almost as if they didn't exist.

And he did not learn what it meant to be a living forgery. And he did not try to save Proko's tether on consciousness.

And Proko did not wake.

_"I need you, 'leek. I can't do this without you."_

It was a choice he could not afford to make again.

Swan struggled against the cold embrace of death and began to intertwine with its anemic cousin, undeath.

 

* * *

 

In his cage, Skov tilted his head back and let the memories wash over him. If he should die here tonight, let him remember something good.

Just, for once, let his world crash down without regret.

* * *

 

Not everyone wanted Adam's gift.

Ronan stumbled on the glowing path. Grimacing, he fought the wave, which crackled and sparked, igniting parts of his brain long dormant. He forced the memories back down. They would not be allowed to consume him. He had blocked memories before. He could do it again.

Matthew was all that mattered.

 

* * *

 

Jiang shook as his vision doubled, thoughts and senses and memories coming back to him. Bile rose as he remembered another childhood, another adolescence, another brief adulthood. There was shame and hiding and never knowing his own worth.

There was Kavinsky.

And there was Declan.

Jiang remembered the Fourth. He remembered Proko catatonic. He remembered avoiding everyone for months, boarding a plane, and coming back to Henrietta. He made no attempt to beg for Matthew's forgiveness and Declan was uncharacteristically silent, not even threatening to hurt him if he talked to his brother again. The two of them just…faded out of his life. Lynch, too. After that summer, Jiang didn't see Declan again.

And Proko didn't wake.

Tears streamed unchecked from Jiang's eyes, rivers flowing over his cheeks. He pushed the memories as far as they can go but they only go to the end of that year. Did anyone make it past that? Or in ripping the fabric of reality apart, did Whelk simply replace one wretched reality with another?

No wonder Skov seemed so achingly familiar, his stupid frat boy attitude and obnoxious voice giving Jiang déjà vu daily. Jiang assumed he met an ancestor or someone very much like Skov sometime in his long life and let it be.

They were friends- Kavinsky, Skov, Swan, Proko, himself. They had been friends, the five of them and so many more, and, in one day, they had become three.

 _Please don't be dead_ , Jiang thought.  _Please, one of you, still be alive._

 

* * *

 

“What is it?” Gansey asked as wave after wave pummeled him. The pain in his skull was agony. He gathered every scrap of propriety he could to avoid clawing his eyes out. It was the worst migraine, centered behind his eyes, in the bones of his face. Blue, Noah,  _Henry_. They swirled inside his skull, tangles of connections he had let die.

Just as he had died.

He had died twice.  _He had died twice._

“A trap,” Declan said through gritted teeth. A muscle throbbed in his temple.

SickSteve snorted. It came out more like a choked gasp. He was on all fours, caught in a gruesome half-transformation. Horns sprouted from human hair. Human legs were bent at the wrong angles. His face was too long, pulled partway into a dog's muzzle. “Only if you consider the truth such. This place reminds you of the things you've forgotten...or wish to forget.”

“Not everyone's past is pleasant,” Declan snapped.

“Who are you worried for,” Gansey asked quietly, “Ronan or your paramour?” Jiang seemed to be taking the worst of it.

"Why is it affecting him so badly?" Blue asked, casting a worried glance at Jiang. He had his arms wrapped around his knees and was rocking gently back and forth.

"Mental plasticity," Ashley said. She was digging out the gunk on the bottom of her Garmonts with a throwing knife. "Some people hold onto ideas like glue." She pointed the knife at Declan. "Not you, though. You always knew something was up. It was the fae, wasn't it, or that father of yours."

"Now isn't the time, Ashley."

"I disagree. We're stuck here until your baby brother comes back. There's a dead thing over there losing his mind. I don't see the point in ignoring the obvious."

"It's called tact, Ashley. You used to have some."

"Oh, yeah? And where has tact gotten you, D? Right here with the rest of us."

Declan was quiet. To Gansey, he said, “What would be your reaction if I told you this isn't the only life you've lived? That you lived another one, you just forgot it?”

"What if it isn't memory loss?" Gansey built on Declan's words with excitement. "What if it's more? Reincarnation. Transmigration of the soul. Not across lives, however. Across worlds."

SickSteve shuddered, his body fluctuating between human and haetae. Through it, he kept his eyes fixed on Gansey.

"There are different worlds," Gansey continued, zeal infusing every word. He wanted to believe. The impossible had always lain close to Gansey's existence.  "We came from one."

"We did," Declan confirmed with far less zeal.

"So what if this isn't the one we belong to?" Gansey caught SickSteve's eye. "That's what you were trying to tell me, wasn't it?"

“Are we still referring to reincarnation?” Ashley asked.

“More like...palingenesis." Declan rubbed his hands over his face. "Imagine for a moment it were possible to cross over into a world that isn't yours, only it’s a one-way crossing and you can't get back.”

“Are you saying you did this?”

Declan stared straight ahead. “I'm saying we all did.”

“Truth,” SickSteve said.

 

* * *

 

_Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck._

Ronan closed his eyes.

"Stop," he begged. "I don't need this." He needed to keep going. He needed to find Matthew.

" _I remember when you used to smell like this," Gansey says. The Barns, he means. When you were happy. When you had a living, waking family._

 

Non mortem, somni fratrem.

 

_Ronan pulls out his phone and calls Matthew._

_It goes to voicemail._

_Ronan doesn’t believe it. He gets into the BMW to head back to Monmouth and calls again._

_Voicemail._

 

Manibus.

 

_Opal is pawing at the soil around him, burrowing like a dog, making frightened little noises. How she hates his dreams._

_The darkness that is not darkness creeps up through the dirt. It's eating the things it touches. Or rather, they are there, and then they are not._

_“Faster,” Ronan snaps, retreating with the skin clutched in his root fingers._

_He could leave the dream skin behind and wake himself up._

_He doesn’t want to leave it. It could work._

_"Kerah,” Opal weeps._

The memories kept flooding in. A life that was infinitely right, infinitely wrong...and the memories of this one that he had lost. Ronan had never tried to recover what had been lost. He didn't need specifics to sketch out years of hell. 

Now he had them. And with them came the certainty of what he had done.

He had destroyed the forest. He had condemned Cabeswater.

It had been his soul-deep desire to catch Whelk and beat him to death. But Whelk had done something, created an opening to another world, and disappeared, leaving Noah's desecrated corpse behind.

"Give me a way to destroy him," Ronan had demanded. In answer, the trees had set themselves aflame.

How could he have known what Whelk had become? That Noah's death meant Whelk was so entwined with the ley line one had to die to kill the other?

"Ronan."

Ronan looked up but he was alone in the darkness.

"Don't fight it. You need to remember." The voice sounded like Adam.

"No," Ronan said, his voice half a sob. "I don't. I don't need any of this." Whelk was dead. Noah was dead. Cabeswater was gone. Ronan didn't need to know that this was not the first time those things had been made fact.

"Remember who you are, Ronan Niall Lynch." It was not Adam's voice that spoke now but another. An old woman, her voice soft and airy, dipping low and harsh at the end.

"Remember  _what_ you are, Snake," another voice joined hers. Calla Johnson, one of Blue's mothers. "And what you have done. You can't pick and choose the bad things in life."

"You were greater than this once and you could be again," said a third. Maura. "You only need to remember."

"I don't want to!"

He had destroyed everything. Whelk had kept going. Matthew had been estranged from him and then kidnapped. There could only be more pain and suffering in the things Ronan had forgotten.

"The world hinges on you, Snake." Calla's voice was an acid bath. " _You_ allowed this to happen," she accused. "It is  _your_ duty to set things right."

"Why don't you fix it if you're so wise?"

Calla was silent.

"She can't," Adam answered. Ronan wished he could see his face. "The ley line will listen to you, Ronan. If you accept this reality, so will it. If you reject it..." He let his words trail off.

If Ronan rejected this reality, things would not change.

What good would accepting the memories do? Noah, Whelk, Cabeswater. The details were different, the story the same. He still had Opal. He still had Matthew.

He didn't have Adam.

The memories beckoned to him, saying  _Ronan, look_.

Even thinking of looking hurt, Adam's absence so much worse with the knowledge that it didn't have to be.

He was kissing Adam on a porch. He was holding his hand as they walked through the halls of Aglionby. He was living at the Barns and Adam was going to school and they were making it work.

_Unguibus et rostro._

"I need to find Matthew," Ronan said. Then he succumbed to the wave.

 

* * *

 

_Three deer appear at the tree line, just at the edge of the porch light’s reach. One of them is the beautiful pale buck, his antlers like branches or roots. He watches them, and they watches him, and then Ronan can not stand it. “Adam?”_

 

_Ronan puts Adam's fingers to his mouth._

 

Dreamers are classified as weapons.

 

_Aurora Lynch, golden-haired Aurora Lynch, is strung out like a string of gory pearls._

_"_ Succuro _,_ succuro _," Opal sobs._

_There is no help to be had._

 

* * *

 

And then it ended. Ronan felt whole, raw in his completeness, a glass vase repaired but still infinitely breakable.

It was not better to know. For in knowing, Ronan knew his complicity. He knew his faults. He knew that Opal and Matthew were his more than they were anyone else's and he had failed them utterly, completely.

He was in the dream place. And he was not alone.

Kavinsky is young again. He can't be more than seventeen. Ronan doesn't have to ask if he's dreaming. There is the dream place and there are dreams and this is nothing more than a dream. Kavinsky isn't here. He is a dead thing, incapable of inhabiting this place.

"Lynch," the false Kavinsky crows. He's surrounded by alcohol and pills, dreamt, unlovely stuff. Memories. Imaginings. Ronan's, not his own. "Where you been? I've been waiting."

He looks fragile, a hungry, hollow cast to his expression. Ronan isn't so struck now by the differences that he can't see the shadows cast by his cheeks or the unsettled look to his bones. Kavinsky is a kid here in the dream place and it doesn't- it doesn't make _sense_.

"Why are you here?" Ronan asks. _Why am I dreaming of you?_

Kavinsky cocks his head, intrigued. "Where else would I go?"

There are still some pieces missing. The vase isn't complete.

Kavinsky looks so young.

The pills are Christmas-colored, red and green.

_“Bonus round,” Kavinsky says. Then: “Open.”_

_He puts an impossibly red pill on Ronan’s tongue. Ronan tastes just an instant of sweat and rubber and gasoline on his fingertips. Then the pill hits his stomach._

 

_In_

_Out_

Kavinsky is watching him. The gold chain glitters on his chest. Ronan's face reflects in his white sunglasses.

Why is he so young?

The pills vanish. The trees scream.

" _Fur, fur, fur!"_ they chant. Thief, thief, thief!

Kavinsky's smile is wide and crooked.  _Dream thief._

In and out. Like a motherfucking thief.

The air grows hot and dry. Normally, Cabeswater and the dream place smell like a forest after the rain. Now it smells like a bonfire.

Kavinsky's form wavers, only his smile staying firm. Energy crackles in the air, abundant and waiting to be seized. Kavinsky's face turns into Prokopenko's, then a fiery monster before finally resettling into his own.

"Do you remember me now?" Kavinsky asks.

"You killed yourself."

Sitting on his haunches, half a hand against his full lips, Kavinsky taps a finger against his temple and nods. "That I did. So tell me, Lynch, why am I here? What brought me back?"

"I don't know."

"When you figure it out, let me know. I'm looking for answers. Because here's the thing: you're not the only one who forgot me. The whole world did. And I want to know why."

His words aren't dream words. Ronan is beginning to think Kavinsky might not be fully dead. Just dying. If he is really here re in the dream place, so he can't be all the way gone.

“Do you know where Matthew is?”

“Your brother? The faeries took him.” Kavinsky snickers. “Faeries. Can you believe it? Faeries kidnapped your brother. They didn’t even leave you anything in his place.”

"Hey, Lynch. Promise me one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget me."

Ronan doesn't have a chance to reply before Kavinsky fades away.

The dream place changes, turning misty and grey. A man, brown-skinned with sandy-colored hair stands amongst the nullity, mist swirling about him, and peers at Ronan through wide-set eyes.

"Adam!"

Adam closes his eyes, eyelashes fanning out on his cheeks. It is a long moment before he opens them again. "What is it, Ronan?"

Ronan halts, confused. Surely Adam...?

"You don't remember?"

"Of course, I remember. I'm the one who brought it all back." Adam sighs. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Where are you going?"

"Uh, back to school? I'm not really here."

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant." Adam looks Ronan dead in the eye, a steely edge to his gaze. "I'm not going back to you, Ronan."

"We were together! For a year! It's only because of what Whelk did that we aren't now!"

"And?" Adam shakes his head. "I've had a whole lifetime without you. I'm making something of myself."

"You could make that with me."

"I could. But you're never leaving Virginia and I can't go back to Henrietta. Even if I wanted to, it's too much." Adam turns his arms over and gazes at the insides. "I didn't make the sacrifice, Ronan. The only magic I have is my own. Cabeswater is gone."

"The ley line's still there," Ronan insists. "We can wake it up. We can rebuild."

" _You_ can. You dreamed it once, you can do it again. There's nothing left for me in Henrietta."

"Did you find someone else?" Ronan has to know.

"What?" Bewilderment clouds Adam's face.

"Did you-"

"I heard what you said. Ronan, there isn't anyone else because there was no  _us_. I was never your boyfriend. You choose your reality and, in this one, you didn't save me. I saved myself." Adam laughs bitterly. "In this reality, I did it all. Everything I have, I made happen."

Ronan is a hollow gourd, scraped clean with a rust-edged spoon. "That's how it's going to be."

"That's how it always should have been." Adam sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not personal. Gansey keeps asking me to go back. I keep telling him no. He went to Cypress Point for you. He's the one you should be trying to win back, not me."

"I love you."

Adam turns his head as if taking a blow. "Yeah," he says, "I know. But the thing is, I'm not willing to change my life around for you and you can't be damned to even think about doing it for me. That makes us incompatible."

"I love you," Ronan repeats.

"And I'm telling you it's not enough. I can't be who I was. You can't make the same sacrifice twice," Adam says and the words seem to take on another meaning. The _magician_ cared for the dreamer. Without that magic to balance them out and Henrietta a curse on Adam's lips, Adam couldn't be made to return. "Dream, Ronan. You made Cabeswater once. You can do it again."

"It won't be the same."

"Yeah," Adam says wryly, "that's kind of my point."

"By the way," he adds, "you've found Matthew."

 

* * *

 

Matthew was dreaming. He must be. Ronan wouldn't be here otherwise.

Hunched in a corner of the shadowy room, Matthew clutched the broken remnants of Chainsaw's bee and hoped.

"Matthew," Ronan said, kneeling down in front of him, hand outstretched. His face looked haggard. "It's alright. You can come with me."

Hope fled. The words were too soft for Matthew's Ronan. Matthew rolled Chainsaw's bee in his hand. If he wished hard enough, maybe Chainsaw would come back.

Ronan grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. "We're leaving, Matthew."

"It's so fun here, Ronan." Matthew hated lying but the man with the funny name might come back. This sunless room was awful enough; Matthew didn't want to be taken anywhere worse. "Can't we stay?"

"No, no, we can't. Come on."

A sound came from the bee clutched in Matthew's hand. He opened it in surprise. With a slight whirring sound, Chainsaw's bee began to reassemble itself. Its amber heart glowed, first faintly, then strongly. It leapt from Matthew's palm and landed on his shoulder.

"What is that?" Ronan asked.

"Chainsaw gave it to me."

"Chainsaw?"

"She's a bird."

"I know what she is." Ronan was quiet for a moment. "Matthew," he asked, "do you know what I am to you?"

Matthew was confused. Ronan must know. Matthew's second set of memories began with Ronan finding him in the forest.

"You're Ronan," he said.

Ronan's eyebrows knotted together. "Yeah, but the connection between us, do you know what that is?"

Matthew liked the word brother, mostly because Ronan used it so loosely. Brother wasn't just a word for someone with the same parents: it was a state of mind. Gansey had been Ronan's brother once upon a time.

Declan had been surprised to find him among the fae. “Did Niall do this to you?” he asked those five years ago. Not Dad or Grandda, just Niall. Father, too, was a state of mind.

"Are you here to take me home?" Matthew had returned. Home wasn't the Barns. It was wherever Ronan was.

"Something like that," Declan said. Then he took Matthew away from the sunlight and the drums, and to a place where the winters were cold and Ronan didn't remember him.

"I know," Matthew said to Ronan now. "I'd like to not talk about this, please."

His first few memories were pain. The agony of turning desire into flesh, twisting dream stuff to fit a particular idea, the fear of the fledgling nighthorrors that lived in the forest. The wretched forms Ronan's mind first spat out, malformed, twisted, inside-out creations. Niall had buried those first attempts under the copse of trees in one of the back pastures, only Declan knowing they were there. Ronan had wanted a brother so bad, Declan later told Matthew, he had not cared that he didn't know how to make one.

 _What am I?_  was a question Matthew had always wondered and never asked.

Ronan was looking at him funny. "All right."

A glowing, green path opened up in front of them. Ronan took Matthew by the wrist and led him down it.


	36. Chapter 36

_Gott ist tot._ God is dead.

That's the only bit of Nietzsche Proko knows. He's not sure he understands the sentiment, the comfort in nihilism. But then, he's watching his god die.

Addictive tendencies run in the family. K ingested speed with his mother's breast milk, smoked a cigarette as his father laughed at a six-year-old's mockery of adulthood.

There's a difference between drugs to blot out depression and drugs to mix things up.

K snorts another line.

Proko has loved him every second of his existence. He has no choice in the matter. It is what he was built to do. Still, he thinks he would love K even if he didn't have to.

K's going to get a nosebleed if he keeps going.

 _u going to class today?_ Skov texts.

 _ks not feeling well_ , Proko answers back.

Skov doesn't reply. They both know K's feeling the same as he always is. Proko lets his phone fall to his side.

"Proko," K commands. "Come here."

Proko goes. He wants to tell K to stop this, he loves him; _please don't give in like this_. He keeps silent. K knows everything Proko could possibly say. K doesn't care.

Proko's god is dying.

 _Gott ist tot_. It's not supposed to be taken literally. Instead, it's meant to be a metaphor for the loss of morality and how religion pales in the face of scientific advancement. Swan says it's not even _Gott ist tot._ It's _Gott ist todt_ because Nietzsche was writing in the late 1800s and everyone spelled things funny back then.

The full quote is long and sweeping, the sort of heavy, descriptive German philosophism that Proko hates. Swan's better at this sort of thing, could quote you the whole thing if you asked, although German is not a language he speaks.

The important part is this: _Gott ist todt. Gott bleibt todt. Und wir haben ihn getödtet_ _._

God is dead. God remains dead. And we are the ones who killed him.

Proko's god is dying.

 

* * *

 

Proko blinked, coming back to the present. Someone else was here. He bared his fangs and hissed.

"Relax, my man. I'm not here to hurt you."

"Tad?" Skov asked.

"Hey, Blakey-Blake. What say we get you out of here?

The newcomer crossed the room quickly, heading straight for Skov's cage. He produced a pair of bolt cutters and made quick work of the lock.

"You're alive?"

"As much as I can be." He opened Skov's cage and they bumped fists. "Shit, what'd they do to you?"

“Took m' fangs.”

“They'll grow back. Mine did.”

"How did you find us?"

"You're never gonna believe this but this little Korean dude, vamp obvi, said you were down here. By the way, good going, pissing off a bunch of faeries."

“Is it just you?”

“Damn, what is this, twenty questions? We lost Santos and Jimbo. No one's seen hide or tail of Engle. We've still got the rest of the boys, though.”

Proko was curled in a ball of misery on the other side of the cage. Tad jerked his head in his direction.

"What's up with him?" Then he saw Swan. "Oh."

“Dude,” Tad said, snipping the lock off Proko's cage. He knelt next to Swan. “Sometimes it takes a while. The bite’s not the same for everybody.” He checked Swan's pulse. “Matter of fact, he should be coming around soon. I'll just jumpstart the process.” He opened his mouth. His fangs descended.

“No!” Proko shouted, shoving Tad away. He didn't want anyone touching Swan.

“Proko,” Skov started.

"Don't touch him," Proko snarled.

"Okay," Tad said. "We'll just...stay here until you're ready."

 

* * *

 

Tad and Skov were sitting side-by-side on the cavern floor. Tad opened and closed the bolt cutters. They made a metallic clank each time they closed.

"Your whole coven disappeared overnight," Tad was telling Skov. "The hunters were bragging about it. They're saying someone named Lynch did it. There was ash, Skov. Piles of it, all around the room. I'm sorry. You guys are all that's left."

"And Jiang," Proko said. He hadn't left his cage. Arms around is knees, he rocked slightly, eyes still trained on Swan's unmoving form. "Sunlight can't kill him. He just doesn't like it."

Skov gritted his teeth.

"We should get moving," Tad said, getting to his feet. "We can take him with us," he said to Proko not unkindly. "I can carry him until he wakes up."

"No." Proko's eyes were turning red. It made Skov uneasy. They shouldn't still do that. He'd been turned too long.

"Proko, man, we can't stay here."

"I said no."

This was how you died. You didn't take your exit when it came and you perished.

Skov shouldn't be this attached. Swan, Proko, Jiang- he had left them behind. Proko couldn't be saved and Swan didn't want to be. Jiang had chased after Lynch's brother and he had been eluded. After everything, the Fourth, graduation, real _life_ , Skov should be able to cut and run. He should. His survival depended on it.

He couldn't.

K's plaything needed to pay. And if he couldn't be made to cough up what was owed, there was one other person responsible.

After all, Jiang knew exactly who K was getting into bed with.

"Proko," Skov said. "How much longer do you need?" Swan was not waking up. The time window for turning was closing.

Proko's head lifted and Skov to swallow. Proko's eyes weren't the red of a newly turned vamp.

They were the cherry red of embers.


	37. Chapter 37

What Piper didn't know but should have was that you shouldn't kill a magical creature over a dragon's bones. While she toyed with Declan and company, a vampire's stolen lifeblood mixed with the ash in the air and soil, and trickled down onto the wastes of a ryong's body.

There was power in that blood, promise in that ash.

The ryong's bones soaked the slurry in slowly. Many years, a blink in the lifetime of a ryong, had passed since last it had been among the living. It took time to remember the shapes of organs, claws, and scales. Slowly, slowly, its body formed fire-bright.

The ryong prepared to spread its wings when something strange occurred. Another mind settled inside its skull. Surprised, the ryong peered inside its heart. What it found there caused it to accept the newcomer gladly. Together, they would exact payment for the injustices done to them.

The ryong spread its wings and, for the first time in twenty years, it flew.

 

* * *

 

The dragon exploded out of the bedrock, fire and flames surrounding the framework of the ryong's skeleton.

It roared in senseless sound and yet Proko understood it.  _Pestis eram vivus_ , it shrieked,  _moriens tua mors ero!_

Proko did not stop to wonder where it had learned Latin. 

 _Kill_ , he urged it as he leapt through the hole it had created.  _Destroy everything. All that we love is dead._

The dragon needed no more motivation. Fire poured from its open maw, great swathes of flame mowing down panicking fae. They screamed and cried, their glamour melting away to reveal painfully plain faces and bodies. Then their skin went, too, white bones and golden muscle showing beneath. Auric blood spilled across the floor and began to sizzle in the extreme heat. The dragon roared, its voice the hiss of water droplets on a stove.

Proko grabbed the first fae that tried to escape and ripped its throat open with his teeth. He gorged himself on the hot, bright blood. The body dropped to the floor with a thud.

He made his way through the panicking horde. The heat scorched his skin, the fresh blood healing the burns instantly. The dragon's flame held little chance of permanently harming him.

Vampire speed far outstripped fae magic. Proko had only to think and he had a hand around a throat, fingers inside a ribcage. Spines snapped easily, femurs shattered like bird bones, wings tore like paper. Such fragile creatures, these fae with their blood like liquefied sunshine. It burned on the way down. It was the only thing Proko felt.

The dragon slithered through the halls, sending great gusts of flame and burning hot, sulphurous air before it. Fae clambered to escape. As if they could.

Proko entered the throne room at what seemed a leisurely pace. In truth, his every step was a fraction of a millisecond, so fast the dying did not know they were until their last breath. Proko's chin and hands, his forearms, his shoes were coated in golden blood. Pinkish tears tracked unnoticed down his hollow cheeks.

The queen was not in attendance.

Proko strolled into the next room. And the next and the next. He killed everything he saw, barely registering that the blood on his hands wasn't always gold. Sometimes, Skov was beside him. More often than not, Proko left him behind.

He had transcended the confines of vampirehood. He was at once Proko and the dragon, more so than ever before. Skov could no more match his pace than a tortoise could keep up with a coyote.

Proko knew he must be getting closer. The fae's clothing was getting heavier and more elaborate. Their glamour was lasting longer.

He grabbed one, a young girl with metalmark wings.

"Where is your queen?" he demanded.

She swallowed, throat bobbing with fear. Her heart beat at a jackrabbit's pace. Impatient, Proko tore her arm from its socket. She let out a scream, which quickly quieted to a sob.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," she said in an endless babble.

Proko threw her to the ground. A crack signaled the end of her existence.

He continued on.

If he were a queen, where would he go? If she was too chicken to face him, hiding was the only natural option. But where?

No fae had any answers. A wholesale massacre and none of them even thought to stand up to him.

 _Come out_ , the dragon roared.  _Face us, coward!_  It was tearing the stronghold apart stone by stone, breathing fire on anything that crossed its path. No fae was getting out under its watch.

The upper levels were nearing destruction. The cavern and the lower levels Proko had already been.

Down was the only way to go.

Proko retraced his steps, looking for an entrance that would lead him further underground. Something had to be beneath the cavern or beside it.

Skov was talking to him. Words fell from his lips as white noise. Proko understood nothing.

Bodies lay strewn about the halls. A glistening trail of gold led the way Proko had come. None of it registered. There was only one purpose: find the queen and slit her throat.

Seeing that Proko was unheeding, Skov left. Proko continued on online.

He came upon the hole the dragon had created when it burst forth and saw that it led downward, far, far below where he had been imprisoned. Past a monstrous gap, a set of broken stairs spiraled into a dark abyss.

Proko was poised to jump when three figures displaced air.

He turned his head human-slow. Two men, identical, and the queen stood where they had not been before. They stank of magic and blood.

Proko knew who the men were. Their fae captors had spoken of Laumonier, the queen's fearsome father.  _Resistance_ , they had said,  _would be met with a visit from Laumonier_. Skov had laughed and said  _bring it_.

That was before he had lost his fangs.

Proko bared his teeth and snarled. He leapt at the queen and was intercepted by Laumonier, who threw him to the ground. Proko caught himself easily and rolled to a crouch. He threw himself at the queen again. Laumonier was quicker to catch him this time but missed Skov behind him. One swipe of Tad's hand and his guts were spilling on the ground.

The queen snarled and raised her fingers to snap.

It was so achingly slow. Proko heard the hiss of the dragon's voice, felt its wings folding. It dove through open sky down into the hole, great maw opening as it went. Flame built in its belly. It opened its wings, using them as a parachute to slow its descent. It hovered, wings flared out wide, in the cavern. Flames, blue-white-red, spewed forth, enveloping the queen in a brilliant column.

She screamed and ran. The dragon barreled after, breathing flame. Proko could feel her life force- and the dragon's- fading with every stride. It would be over soon enough.

Now to relieve Piper of any assistance. Skov held the remaining Laumonier in a triangle choke against the ground. Proko squatted next to them.

"Where's your brother?" he asked Laumonier.

"Dying," the man replied.

Skov rolled his eyes. "The other one."

"Dead," Laumonier said.

A rattling breath and the one-in-three became one in one. Proko glanced at where Laumonier lay in a pool of his own intestines. Tad wiped blood from his chin with the back of gold-stained hands.

“It hurts, doesn't it,” Prokopenko said, almost surprised by the tonelessness of his voice, “losing part of yourself. Don't worry. It won't be long till you go their way.”

With no effort at all, he plucked one of Laumonier's eyes from its bony cradle and crushed it in front of him. Aqueous fluid spurted in every direction. It did little to cleanse Proko's hands.

The tortured sound that ripped from Laumonier's throat made Proko smile.

He gripped Laumonier's hand in one of his own. With the slightest bit of pressure, he ground the bones to dust. The shriek that followed only served to widen Proko's smile.

Uncertainty edged with fear poured off of Skov.

 _You don't know who I am_ , Proko thought.  _You don't know what I'm capable of._

Still, he was a friend. Proko wouldn't hurt him.

He also wouldn't reassure him when there was nothing left to lose.

Growing bored of this slow torture, Proko covered Laumonier's face with his hand and crushed his skull. It made a satisfying  _crunch-squelch_  as bone was forcibly merged with brain matter.

Proko wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. The dragon should be finishing Piper off now.

"What are you gonna do now?" Skov asked as Proko walked away.

"The only thing that matters," Proko said, not looking back. He raised one hand in a half-hearted wave. "I'm going to watch the show."

 

* * *

 

" _Cariño_."

Proko looked over his shoulder. Swan shivered. There wasn't even a pretense of humanity left in his face. He was a vision in unsettling red and gold. Flames danced in his pupils, heat sizzled all around him.

Swan didn't dare move closer. How did Skov expect him to solve this?

"Swan," Skov had insisted mere minutes before while Swan was still coming to grips with the sudden unnecessity of breathing, "you gotta stop him. He's destroying everything. We're never going to get out of here at this rate."

Swan had danced with danger before. Now that he saw what he was doing up here on the ramparts, he had no intention of stopping Proko. And so he took a seat, resting one elbow on one bent knee, and watched a dragon made of flames raze a stronghold to the ground.

"Are you scared of me?" Proko asked, looking straight ahead. The dragon tore a child in half.

 _Yes_. "How much of him is in you?"

Proko laughed. "As much as there ever was." He gestured to the dragon. “As much as is in it."

The acrid smell of burning flesh filled Swan's newly sensitive nose.

"I never thought I would fall for Kavinsky, whatever part of him you are." It didn't need explaining. Proko wouldn't be able to control the dragon otherwise. Were all dream things merely offshoots of their creators? Right now, it wasn't a question Swan needed answered.

Proko was quiet. "You fell for me?"

"In love," Swan said. "Since we were kids." Honesty wasn't hard when you were watching a dragon raze a city to the ground.

"What about before?" Proko's red eyes were fixed upon him. They didn't strike nearly as much fear in Swan as before.

Swan smiled wryly. "What do you think?"

 

* * *

 

Ashley shielded her eyes and gazed up at the gaping hole in the ceiling.

"Well," she said, "I've never seen anything like that before."

Jiang had. Jiang and Lynch and Gansey, and the girl, too, they had all seen that fiery vision once before. Jiang was as awed then as he was now and as horrified.

The dragon screamed. A gust of burning air filled the cavern. It scorched the outer layer of Jiang's skin and made him sick with fear and exhilaration.

"What's happening?" Blue yelled, her spiky hair a blur about her face.

"I don't know!" Gansey yelled back, wind and heat buffeting his face and distorting his words. "There's something out there."

"A dragon," Jiang said with absolute certainty. He could feel the flames. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nose, so strong he couldn't tell if it was coming from above or a memory. "The fox said this used to be a dragon's palace. Looks like someone woke it."

"Not to be rude or anything-" Ashley flipped her hair as she said this, unperturbed by the air cooking them where they stood, "but, like, I don't know how to fight a fire dragon."

Jiang did. You kill the source.

Did that mean Kavinsky was alive and had somehow regained his dreaming? He'd never shown any such ability here.

Jiang didn't like this. The dragon was a last ditch effort, an explosion of emotion. Fear, mostly. Kavinsky used to be covered in burns.

Fuck, the burns. He'd forgotten about those.

They needed to get out of here. Not a damn one of them would survive if the dragon turned on them.

"We need to leave," SickSteve said.

Declan's eyes hardened. "Not without Ronan and Matthew. That was the deal."

"That might have been  _your_ deal. I've all but accomplished what I came here for."

"You still have to get us out."

SickSteve let out a put-upon sigh. The air in front of him rippled, a mirage on asphalt on a hot summer's day. "There. That's the way out. You'll need me to go through it but nothing else will come through. Now where is your family? We don't have ti-" His ears pricked up and turned to the side.

Matthew and Ronan had arrived.

 

* * *

 

"Matthew!" Declan enveloped the youngest Lynch in a tight embrace. Matthew squeezed back just as hard. "Are you all right?"

Matthew nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak.

"Hold on, you've got a-"

"No!" Matthew said, laying a protective hand over the insect on his shoulder. "Chainsaw gave it to me."

Declan looked perplexed.

"It's fake," Ronan said. "He's kind of attached."

The dragon shrieked many feet above them. Ronan and Matthew looked to the ceiling, startled.

"What is that?"

"Dragon," Blue said shortly. She flapped a hand. "Long story. We're trying to get out of here."

"Gansey, Blue, get on my back." SickSteve's tone brooked no disagreement. "We'll have to do this in groups. I can't take you all at once. I can manage two- three jumps tops."

With the two of them on his back, SickSteve backed up and took a running start. He leapt through the portal and was instantly gone.

In a minute, he was back and visibly more tired. "Okay, three is too many. Who's next?"

There was a burst of flame from overhead. It came nowhere near touching them but it was only a matter of time before the dragon thought to look underground.

"Will Chainsaw's bee be too much for you?" Matthew asked from where he sat above SickSteve's withers. Plucking the bee from his shoulder, he leaned across the haetae's neck, bringing his hand close enough for SickSteve to see the mechanical creature. Ronan scrambled to grab his waist to keep him from falling.

SickSteve _whuff_ ed. "I was wondering where that had gotten to."

With reluctant sadness, Matthew offered SickSteve the bee.

"No, no, you keep it. It suits you. Cheng can always give me another. Are you holding on tight?" SickSteve's demeanor was much softer with Matthew than anyone else. "All right, let's go."

When he returned, SickSteve's muscles trembled. His head hung low, almost brushing the ground. It was with great effort that he moved each of his paws.

Still, Jiang hesitated. He hadn't found who he was looking for.

"I can only do one more," SickSteve said, blinking the slow blink of one about to fall asleep. He yawned hugely. "After that, the magic in this place will reject me."

Declan looked hesitant.

"Go with them," Jiang said. "You know Ronan can't take care of Matthew. I'll find my own way back."

Declan's jaw twitched.

"Declan," Ashley said, "I can get your brothers to safety."

"Go," Jiang said. "When I've done what I need to do, I'll find you." It wasn't meant to be a question. It sounded like one.

Declan's eyes didn't waver. "You will."

"I will." Jiang smiled crookedly. "We have a lot to talk about."

Declan moved to mount SickSteve.

"Hey, D," Jiang said when they were about to enter the portal, SickSteve walking this time. He had to say this. There was still that doubt, that memory of what happened last time it was the two of them and a gateway to another world. "I never stopped wanting you."

Declan sucked in a breath. Jiang wanted that sound tattooed on his soul.

"In case you didn't know."

The portal closed and then there was only Jiang.

 

* * *

 

This was something no one knew, save the two of them, not even the huli jing.

As he walked down the mountain, away from the easy path, the fox's vampire came to Jiang in his mind.

 _He would not have helped you without compensation_ , the vampire spoke, in words that were neither English nor Korean, nor words at all.  _It is not in his nature. But it is in mine._

That was all he said. What help he had to offer, he didn't say. Jiang didn't ask.

He climbed. Up, out of the cavern, forgoing the stairs for the much easier cavern walls. They were imbued with magic, simple enough to tap. Every contact made Jiang stronger, filled him with the joy and rage of the dragon that had been encased within them.

He followed the line of destruction. The hallways of the stronghold were bathed a rich, slick gold. Fae wings and less palatable body parts were scattered everywhere. Occasionally, Jiang saw a whole corpse but this was a rarity. Most were burnt or dismembered or burnt _and_ dismembered.

Anyone else would have been horrified. For Jiang, this was good news.

His friends were alive.

He followed the shifting light patterns on the floor to a window. Its glamour was still partially in place. What must have once looked like a beautiful stained glass window now was oddly fragmented, clear glass with the occasional flash of color. Jiang picked up a piece of fallen concrete and threw it through the glass. Then he slid through, heaving himself up onto the outer frame. From there, he scaled the stronghold wall. The dragon was at the top. Jiang would bet its master was, too.

 

* * *

 

The dragon was the first thing he saw. It was massive, a winding, wingless beast made of fire and flame.

The second was Proko.

Kavinsky was nowhere in sight. Kavinsky, Jiang quickly realized, wasn't the one in control.

It was not up for interpretation. Proko stood there, eyes fixed on the dragon, and the energy resonated between the two of them in the most unambiguous way.

Emotions mixed inside of Jiang. Fear was preeminent, followed by delight, horror, sympathy. The dragon was a glorious blend of cultures, of real and unreal. Its presence spelled disaster every time.

Jiang crouched next to Swan. "What's he doing?"

"Jiang," Swan said and even without the eyes and the fangs, Jiang would know. From twenty feet away, his energy was starkly different. "You took your time." The expression when he looked at Proko was a mixture of awe and fondness. "Did you remember the dragon? I did not."

Of course, Jiang remembered the fucking dragon.

"Why'd he bring it back?" And where was Kavinsky? Jiang couldn't feel him anywhere. Skov, Proko, Swan's muted energy, another vamp, scores of fae. Unless... "Kavinsky's dead."

It was the truth of their twilight existence: they had died before and they would die again, these unholy creatures of the night. They lived only by the grace of not being killed. That was their fate: to die brutally, at the hands of someone better or simpler stronger than they.

Mourn if you wanted but the inevitability meant they were always in mourning. Or pretending their existence would last forever. Kavinsky had been good at that.

"Several days now. They," Swan said, gesturing to the dragon and Proko, "are all that's left."

So this was vengeance.

"You might want to go," Swan added, red eyes turning to look at Jiang. "Skov doesn't take betrayal lightly."

"I didn't- I've been looking for you guys, honest."

"Have you? Seems an opportune time to find us."

Jiang's throat ached. Hurt turned to anger. "You never even liked Kavinsky. Isn't this exactly what you wanted? He's dead and now you have Proko to yourself."

Swan snorted elegantly. "Yes, we all got what we wanted." They watched the dragon tear apart a tower, great chunks of stone falling upon screaming fae. "I don't see your hunter. Did he abandon you?"

"Fuck you, Swan," Jiang said, standing up. "I've been looking for you guys for days."

"Well, well, well."

Aw, shitfuck.

"Welcome to the party, Jiang." Skov's face was as hard as ice. "Did your invitation get lost in the mail?"

“What happened?” Jiang asked. He meant to K, to Proko.

"K’s gone. You were too late. That's all you need to know."

"I didn't kill him," Jiang blurted out.

Skov sneered. It was a harsh expression, alien to his face. "Maybe not. The rest of the house is dead, Jiang. Your hunter has that blood on his soul."

"K brought Lynch." Why was Jiang defending himself? He'd tried.

"And the house lived when it was just Lynch." Skov paused to glance at Proko. “Where have you been, Jiang?”  _Why didn’t you help us?_

“I’ve been looking for you.”  _I tried._

“Wonderful job you did.” The sarcasm was thick. Jiang had failed. He needed only look at the destruction of the fae stronghold to know he did.

“Where will you go now?” he asked Skov.

"I have friends," Skov said curtly. "Don't try to find us."

 _We don't trust you_ , he meant.

"Maybe you brought this upon us, maybe you didn't. Whatever, it's done now."

Jiang didn't want it to end like this. They had been friends in that other life. He had liked Skov. "Will I see you again?"

"In a century, maybe," Skov said. He sounded tired more than anything else. "When your hunter's dead and gone."

There was only one thing Jiang could say to that. It was the same thing he said every time he had to start over.

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

Far quicker than it had begun, the destruction was at an end. There were no more fae left alive, not here at least. Any that had escaped Proko would let go. He had gotten the ones he wanted.

With his permission, the dragon faded, its fire growing cold, its light passing. It had done what was asked. The ryong was satisfied.

And Proko, for the first time in years, found himself alone. His head was empty. He felt raw and splintered, the other thirds of his whole gone.

He was also free. His servitude was at an end. It was time to find a new master.

Proko looked at Swan and knew who it would be.

 

* * *

 

Proko swayed and Swan leapt to catch him, to brush the sweaty hair from his face.

Proko looked up. His eyes were brown again, though now Swan could see flecks of gold in them he couldn't before. He felt warm now. Swan knew that that, too, was from a change in himself and not his boy.

"They're gone," Proko said. "I can't feel them anymore, 'leek."

Swan brushed his lips against Proko's forehead.

"Was Jiang here?"

"Yes. He said he tried to find us."

Proko nodded, accepting that answer. "'m really tired, 'leek."

"Then sleep. I've got you."


	38. Chapter 38

"Will he be able to get back through?" Gansey asked. The portal had closed behind SickSteve, was nearly closing when he had come through.

"No," SickSteve said. His legs shook with the effort to hold himself up. The tips of his scales had turned clear. His eyes threatened to stay closed every time he blinked. "He'll have to find another way. I'm sorry. I really have to go. I've been away from Donghyun long enough."

He disappeared.

Declan's face brooked no emotion. "Come on, Matthew," he said. "We need to get you to a doctor."

"That's it?" Gansey said. "That's everything?" He sounded disappointed.

"Thank you for helping us find Matthew." Declan's face was unreadable. "I'm going to take him home now. Ronan can come if he wants." He walked towards the Volvo, shoulders proud. He opened the door and climbed inside. After a long moment, the engine started.

"Are you going with him?" Gansey asked Ronan.

"Maybe."

The silence stretched.

"If you still want, I can help you translate that journal," Ronan offered.

"To be completely honest, I never needed it translated," Gansey said. "I simply wanted to see you again. The journal was Adam's idea. It is real, don't misunderstand," he added hastily.

"Oh," Ronan said, the wounds on his heart ripping back open. "Still, if you need anything..."

"It would be nice," Gansey said, hope laced into every word, "to see you every once in a while."

"I think I can manage that."

"It would be nicer," Gansey continued, "if I could call you my friend again."

Richard Campbell Gansey III had been someone Ronan once called brother. He had put his life on hold to save Matthew. He had, perhaps most importantly, seen Ronan through all his ups and downs and never been the one to walk away. "I'll think about it."

"Let me know?"

"Sure thing."

They clasped arms.

"Little brother," Ashley called. "I'll give you a lift." Blue sat in the passenger seat next to her.

"That's my cue to go." Gansey smiled up at Ronan. "See you around?"

"Sure."

The Volvo and Ashley's Subaru were already gone when Ronan sat down in the BMW's driver seat. He leaned his head against the headrest for a moment and closed his eyes.

"You should buckle your seatbelt."

"You should shut up," Ronan said, unable to help the grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thought you were a goner." He opened his eyes.

Noah stuck out his tongue at him. "Give me some credit. I'm a little bit tougher than that."

"Little bit," Ronan agreed.

"Where are we going?" Noah asked. He fiddled with the radio, settling on an absolutely abysmal alternative station they both liked.

"Henrietta," Ronan said. "I've got a daughter to get back."

 

* * *

 

Stephen ran and ran, his large paws eating up ground. Stephen didn't have the strength to summon another portal. He had barely gotten to Mantua before the last of his ability was sapped from him. Only a few more miles and he could see Donghyun again.

Fear plagued his mind, fear that Donghyun would not want him back. He had never once pushed the boundaries of their relationship. Stephen was there to help with his work and guard the house. It could hardly even be called a friendship.

As he ran, Stephen undid the last knots tangling up his mind. The dream he had had not two days past. It had terrified as much as it had saddened, the thought that he had forgotten his husband- his husband? his husband!- even as he lived with him for nearly a year. Now he knew the truth (and how do you lock the truth away from a haetae? What magic the ley line held, how powerful Barrington Whelk's wish had been!). It wasn't a memory but a phantasm. More than an idle wish, it was a deep, fierce desire. Every shared glance, every quiet word. 

("After we graduate," Lee-Squared had said and he meant college, not high school, "make an honest man of me."

And then they had been ripped apart and they did not remember.)

Stephen bounded through the air, so much easier when it was only distance and not planes of existence separating them. His muscles shook. They begged him to stop, screaming their exhaustion and displeasure. He would not stop. There was no way to tell how much time had passed. It could be days or months or years. He had to get back. He had to tell Donghyun he had forgotten but he hadn't given up. There was still time. There had to be.

His vision swam. Stephen blinked hard, trying to focus it. It wasn't much farther.

It was a struggle to open the door, Stephen clasping the doorknob between his teeth and turning it excruciatingly slowly. He panted from the effort as he hobbled inside.

And there was Donghyun.

It took Stephen's last bit of energy to transform back into human form. He couldn't even stand, could just barely hold himself up on all fours, shaking. His eyes rolled up to look at Donghyun's thick thighs, his gently hanging belly, his kind, round eyes. Everything kind and curved and  _home_.

_I love you, I love you, I love you. Please remember. Please._

"Stephen," Donghyun said, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around Stephen's neck. His voice lanced through Stephen, piercing his chest straight through to his heart. "Stephen, Stephen, Stephen."

"I love you," Stephen said. Then the last of his strength gave out and he collapsed into Donghyun's waiting arms.

 

* * *

 

"You need to take this exit," Blue said.

Ashley blew past it.

"You missed the exit." Gansey said this somewhat wonderingly, as though missing an obvious exit was a thing to be wondered at.

Ashley made no sign she had heard.

"We need to turn back," Blue said. "Ashley."

Ashley stared straight ahead.

"Ashley!"

"You're not going home." Ashley's eyes met Blue's in the rearview mirror.

Anger flooded Blue's veins. "Where are you taking me?"

"Orla told me you aren't to come back until it's not home anymore. It's been too long since you traveled, Blue. It's time to see the world."

"What?"

"Your card's not reversed anymore. She read it before we left. You're not going home, Blue."

"What about Opal? I have to-"

"You have to think of yourself first. The Lynches will take care of their own."

Blue scowled, folded her arms, and  _thunk_ ed back in her seat. "So where are you taking me?"

"I'm taking you  _both_ to see an old friend. He's sorry he couldn't meet you in Baltimore," she told Gansey. "He had something important to take care of."

"You wouldn't happen to be talking about Henry, would you?" Gansey asked excitedly.

"Who else?"

"Henry who?" Blue asked.

But there was only one Henry.

It had been a long time since Blue last saw Henry Cheng.


	39. Chapter 39

The return to the real world was not as fun as it could be.

Matthew worried about his brothers, Ronan some, Declan more. Ronan was taking care of Opal now. He brought her by just last week. It was the first time Matthew had ever met her, except it wasn't. He hunched down and they stared at each other. There was an understanding there, that this wasn't their world but they'd rather not go back. It was times like this Matthew wished he were a little bit smarter.

He told Opal he liked her dress. He didn't tell her she looked like a friend Ronan sometimes had. Matthew had never been quite sure if that friend was real or a figment of Ronan's imagination. Declan said it wasn't polite to point out when someone wasn't real.

Matthew thought Opal was a little bit smarter than him. He wasn't mad. He just thought she was.

Ronan said he was going to rebuild the Barns last time he was here. Matthew said, "That sounds fun."

When Ronan asked if Matthew wanted to go with him, Matthew said no.

Matthew might not be the smartest but he thought someone needed to look after Declan. His friend hadn't come back. Declan wouldn't talk about it, just ruffled Matthew's hair and told him to _study, Matthew, college isn't easy_.

Ronan didn't go to college. He worked at a college but Declan said that's temporary and a different thing besides. _Study_ , _Matthew_.

Ronan's friend came back every so often. Ronan mentioned him sometimes when they talked on the phone. Matthew wondered where he went when he wasn't with Ronan.

But he didn't ask. It was very definitely a thing Polite People didn't Ask.

Where do people go, Matthew wondered, when they go away? He hoped the Seelie Lands. They were nice.

Matthew thought it'd be a little bit nicer, though, if Jiang came back here.


	40. Chapter 40

Matthew had already gone to bed when the doorbell rang.

Declan did not run to the door. He didn't.

It had been three weeks. He needed to let the hope die. Jiang wasn't coming back.

Declan steadied himself in front of the door. He dared not look through the window. Let him hold on to this hope just a little bit longer.

The doorbell rang again.

He took a breath and opened it.

Jiang looked like a ghost from the grave. "Damn, D, how long were you going to make me wait?"

Declan stared at Jiang for a moment, long enough that the expression on Jiang's face wavered and no, that wasn't it at all. He grabbed Jiang, pulling him into an embrace, and crushed his nose in the join of his neck and shoulder. Declan sucked in deep breaths, trying and failing to control himself.

"I'm sorry," Jiang was babbling. "I tried to find a way back but it took forever. Not as long as here but that place sucks up time or something-"

"Shut up," Declan said, pulling back, his hands framing Jiang's face, thumbs on his cheeks. "Let me look at you." He searched Jiang's face and found nothing. He was healthy, as much as he could be.

Jiang smiled crookedly. Or was it shakily? Declan couldn't tell the difference. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Cold." Jiang tangled their fingers together, glancing at Declan as if to ask is this okay, as if Declan didn't have his face pressed into Jiang's neck five seconds ago.

Declan let the door fall shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

Talking was not the first thing they did when it was over, despite what Jiang said.

Declan couldn't talk. Not now, when he feared every touch was nothing more than a waking fantasy. Three weeks Jiang had gone, if he had ever returned at all.

Instead of words, Declan used his mouth. Instead of discussing things, he let their bodies do the talking. Sex could be so many things: mindless, a connection between souls, a way to pass the time.

In his bedroom, Declan pressed his lips against Jiang's open-mouthed. Jiang's body temperature was low, his tongue ring cool against Declan's skin. Declan broke the kiss. Jiang sighed.

Declan trailed down the soft skin of Jiang's neck. He caught Jiang's raised collarbone between his teeth in a gentle hold. Jiang squirmed.

Declan continued down Jiang's chest and abdomen, stopping to suck a bruise into his hipbone. Jiang was healthy enough to bruise. That revelation lit a fire inside Declan and he couldn't stop.

There was so much pretty skin to mark. Declan nipped at his prominent ribs while he toyed with a pierced nipple. It hardened under his fingers. Jiang gasped. He was wonderfully receptive tonight.

 _Don't think about what this means_ , Declan told himself _._ _Don't think at all._

Sometimes the smartest things went unsaid.

He took Jiang's dick in hand and pressed the warm skin against his cheek. He nuzzled it, content to brush against it with only the barest of touches. Jiang's breath grew shallow. A pearl of precome oozed from the tip. It spilled over and ran down the shaft parallel to the pulsing vein on the underside. Before it had gotten halfway, Declan swept the precome up with his tongue.

That was enough, he decided, and turned his attention lower.

"Please," Jiang gasped. Declan stopped sucking at the inner skin of Jiang's slim thighs. He looked up and smirked.

"Please what?"

" _Do something._ "

Declan nudged between Jiang's legs. They fell open easily, Jiang not even trying to put up a fight. Declan reached into his nightstand for the lube. He popped the cap open and poured a quarter-sized amount in his hand in his rush. It would do.

Placing the cap back on and the lube back in the drawer, he rubbed the lube between his hands to warm it. Jiang watched him with dark, greedy eyes.

Declan smiled. Then he hauled one of Jiang's legs over his shoulder and traced a finger around his hole, getting it nice and wet. He pressed two fingers inside, knowing Jiang could take it. He had taken much more before.

He rocked his fingers back and forth, searching for that sweet spot. Jiang's fluttering eyelids and the teeth sinking into his plush bottom lip told him when he had found it.

" _D_ ," Jiang groaned, his nails digging crescents into Declan's upper back. " _Do something_."

Declan hummed, feigning unconcern. He curled his fingers inside Jiang, wrenching an unwitting groan from his throat.

Wiping his hands on the sheet, Declan decided it was high time he got undressed. Jiang's dark eyes tracked his every move as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor. His undershirt joined it soon after. Declan made a show of undoing his belt, letting it slip through the belt loops with a slow, smooth _snik_. He grinned at Jiang as he rolled it up carefully and placed it on the nightstand. Jiang's chest was flushed. It rose and fell with every unnecessary breath, serving one, undeniable purpose: to show a beautiful tableau of arousal.

Standing up, Declan popped the button on slacks and pulled the zipper down. Jiang's eyes weren't the least bit focused on his face. All they saw was the thick thatch of hair and Declan's curved, achingly erect cock.

Declan's boxers fell to the floor.

"Get on your stomach," he told Jiang, who raised an eyebrow before obliging.

Declan uncapped the lube bottle, careful this time to pour out an appropriate amount, and slicked up his cock. He got onto the bed. Declan dragged his cock over the cleft of Jiang's ass, teasing him with it. Then he parted Jiang's cheeks, and lined them up. He paused for a moment, only able to stare at Jiang in wonder.

He was beautiful, Declan's lover was. Pale with only the slightest flush on his cheeks for color, his hair black and his ink blacker, Jiang was slim and deceptively delicate. Fine-boned, he could steal the breath from Declan's chest and leave him lifeless in seconds. He was dangerous beyond all belief and he wasn't the least bit innocent. He was, undoubtedly, a wondrous match for Declan's ruined soul.

"D," Jiang said.

Declan shoved in. Instantly, he was consumed by the tightness and heat. Jiang's walls clenched around him and Declan shuddered. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in, taking Jiang's wordless vocalizations as encouragement.

It was easy to find his rhythm, every thrust punctuated with an "ah!" from Jiang's lips. He was so pretty like this, mouth slack, fingers digging into the pillows and the mattress, the headboard, anything he could hold onto.

Wrapping an arm around Jiang's waist, Declan pulled him back onto his lap. It was a deeper, more intense angle. Jiang choked on a gasp, his eyes going wide. His fingers scrabbled to find purchase on Declan's thighs and arms.

Declan chuckled. He brought his lips to Jiang's ear.

"Are you close?" he asked, voice a low gravel. "If I touched you, would you come for me?" He traced along the edge of Jiang's cock with his hand, a millimeter separating him from actually touching it.

Jiang moaned in lieu of words.

"I don't hear a yes." Declan dragged the skin of Jiang's neck through his teeth, leaving a raw, red mark. Jiang flinched. Declan ran his tongue over the offending spot in silent apology, surprised he had even done it. He was veering dangerously close to losing control. "You are, aren't you? So close. How long's it been since someone filled you like this? Have you even been with a living person since me? Vamps don't count."

Jiang laughed breathlessly. "Five-" he gasped, "years. You really think you're the only one?"

Declan's thrust was hard enough to hurt. "Answer me," he growled.

Jiang laughed in defiance, grinning at him over his shoulder.

That wouldn't do. Declan was teetering on the edge of losing control. He was already most of the way gone, not a damn lick of sense in anything he was doing.

He pulled out. Jiang flopped onto the mattress, head pressed against the pillow.

"Answer me." Need turned his voice vicious bordering on cruel. That was fitting. Declan _was_ cruel. He had done exceptionally cruel things. It was only fair the cruelty was showing through here, where he least wanted it. He willed Jiang to stop him, to tell him this was too much. Jiang didn't want to be here. He didn't want this, this fucked up man who had nearly cost him his life twice over. "Who else did you let touch you?"

Jiang dragged his lip between his teeth. "No humans," he said, turning his head just enough that his words weren't completely muffled by bedding. "No one but you."

Heat licked up Declan's spine. That couldn't be true, could it? Lie or not, the words were damn gratifying.

He reached under Jiang to take his cock in hand, pumping it a few times until Jiang spilled across him with a shiver and a groan.

Declan rolled onto his back. He tugged Jiang onto his sweat-slicked chest, keeping one arm wrapped around Jiang's waist.

Jiang said something. It was too quiet for Declan to hear.

"Hmm?" he asked, spinning circles into Jiang's hip.

"Was it worth it, leaving me?" Jiang asked, trailing his fingers up Declan's arm.

Ah. Jiang wanted to talk.

"Yes, and I would do it again. You I can replace. My brother I cannot."

Jiang smiled, canting his hips forward. "You sure know the way to a man's heart."

"Are you a man?"

"I'm a something."

“How are you doing there?” He placed a hand on Jiang's abdomen, pressing down hard enough to make Jiang groan. Declan grinned. “Thought so. You don't mind if we get back to this?”

Jiang let the arm slung over Declan's shoulder fall across his eyes. "You are the worst at pillow talk."

“You like it.”

“Maybe.” Jiang smiled. “Now get on with it before my dick goes soft.”

“Speaking of pillow talk-“

“Shut up. Actually, you know what, make me shut up. You've had a couple years, show me something better than a handie in the backseat of your car.”

“As I recall, you enjoyed that "handie"," Declan said, already lining himself up.

“ _D_.”

“Going, going.” Declan snapped his hips and that was what Jiang was waiting for.

 

* * *

 

Jiang's breathy moans would be the death of him. Each exhale went straight to Declan's dick, every look at his slack mouth to his soul. Declan pulled Jiang's leg higher over his hip, affording him a better angle. Jiang seemed to like it, if the catch in his breath was any indication.

"When's the last time you had anyone inside you?" Declan asked, feeling emboldened. "Tell me it wasn't one of those vamps. You deserve so much better than one of those bloodsuckers." He laid a kiss to the delicate column of Jiang's throat. He had always wondered whether the ink was glamour or not. Jiang had had some before but everything in this lifetime was new. "Hmm, what was that?"

"I said, it was you, shit-for-brains."

"It was me, wasn't it?" Declan chuckled. Jiang punched him without force.

Declan wasted no time pulling out and slamming back in. There was something beautiful in the way Jiang's back arched as he gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

 

* * *

 

Jiang's energy was winding down but Declan needed more. If this was to be the past time, he needed his muscles to ache from overuse, not Jiang's absence. He turned his lover over on his side, a soft grumble the only protest, and took no time to thrust between Jiang's slippery thighs.

Jiang hummed a sleepy encouragement, thighs slack against Declan's cock. It was almost painful on his oversensitized skin. Declan welcomed that pain, embraced it, wanting it to last so that something other than his heart would ache in Jiang's absence.

He shoved the thought away, resolving to focus only on the sensation. Jiang's breathy, little moans were sweetly encouraging, his ass scooting back to afford Declan better access. Declan pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Such a delicate, lovely thing, his lover.

Come spurted between Jiang's legs. For a second all Declan could hear was his own panting. Then Jiang rolled over to press against him, uncaring of the mess between his thighs.

He fingered the long strands of Jiang's hair. "Not too rough for you?"

The noise Jiang made could politely be called "scoffing". "It was good. I didn't have to do any work."

"Lazy," Declan said, stroking the curve of Jiang's jaw.

Eyes closed, Jiang stuck out his tongue. "Blegh."

Declan chuckled. He leaned down to kiss Jiang's brow. When was the last time he had been this happy? He couldn't recall. He kissed Jiang's brow again, then pulled back. He should probably go get a washcloth and clean them both u-

"Don't go," Jiang mumbled, throwing an arm over Declan's waist. "This is nice. I don't want it to end just yet."

Declan froze. He pulled Jiang closer to his chest. 

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

* * *

 

It was quiet, the only sounds Declan's steady breathing and the beating of his heart. Down the hall, Matthew breathed in and out, in and out, a strong, placid sound.

Sleep.

When was the last time Jiang had slept? Or Declan, for that matter?

His ear pressed to Declan's chest, Jiang used the edge of his fingernail to lightly scrape the pink skin around Declan's nipple. His Irish blood made him pale, his exhaustion more so. The white lines held for a second before the blood rushed back.

Jiang leaned up to kiss the underside of Declan's jaw, enjoying the scratch of his morning stubble. He breathed in Declan's musky scent, so close and so alive. His energy had been fading the last time they were together. It was stronger now, tinged with tiredness and depression. Jiang wanted to say something to heal that but he'd never been good at words and he tried to get back as soon as he could. It just took a while.

Declan didn’t seem to be stirring anytime soon so Jiang rested his head on his chest and twined his fingers in Declan's thick chest hair.

Jiang turned over and laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He could fake a certain sense of sleep, a dozing wakelessness that lasted for hours. He didn't want to sleep tonight. A short while ago, he was still in Elphyne, looking for a way out, cursing himself for not demanding the ryuizhu of Lynch.

Then a bee made of living metal landed on his shoulder and told him to go back to Litchfield House.

Mrs. Woo was waiting for him. A wary sort of respect had been forged between them. She asked if he truly wanted to go back. It would be safer here, shelter from the storm of hunters. Jiang had looked around her home with its hallmarks of generations of kits.

"What is the point of even this little bit of life," he asked her, "if I keep running from all its dangers?"

"Your happiness will not last," she answered, should you even find it. "Human lives are short and fragile."

When she saw that he would not listen to her, their ages nearly the same, she said, "Go to the edge of my property. One of my boys will meet you there. He will take you back to the human world."

 

* * *

 

Jiang was still there when Declan awoke. Running a hand down Jiang's spine, Declan didn't know whether to be grateful or surprised.

Doubt threatened to unfurl in Declan's mind. He shoved it back down. Jiang had come back. Not simply back, he had come _here_. After helping save Matthew. There was no ulterior motive. There wasn't.

If this was going to end badly, it was going to be Declan's fault.

No, he couldn't let himself think like that. Jiang was here. He had wanted him before. This, right now, was real.

"What are you thinking about?" Jiang asked, lifting his head. His weight on Declan's chest, so comforting a few minutes ago, felt like a taunt, an obvious display of the impossible. This, too, would end.

"Nothing."

"Your energy's dipping low."

That was laughable coming from Jiang.

"I don't want to talk about it." Declan sat up on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to go make breakfast. You should stay here." There were plenty of Niall's magical artifacts lying around to tide Jiang over until they could get him to a ley line. There was one coursing through DC, damaged but easy enough to amplify. "I'll take you to the ley line later."

"I'm pretty sure I can find the ley line myself."

"Just- stay here."

 

* * *

 

Jiang stared at the bedroom door in frustration. _Stay here._ He wasn't an invalid and he sure as fuck wasn't going to embarrass Matthew if they ran into each other.

Fuck staying here.

Jiang tugged his pants back on and dug through Declan's closet for a shirt. Stuffy shit, all of it. He pawed through his dressers until he found something a little more relaxed. Slipping it on, he headed downstairs.

Declan stood by the stove. Jiang walked up behind him. He slid his hands up under Declan's shirt, along the defined planes of his abdomen and chest. He leaned his cheek against Declan's back between his shoulder blades.

"You want to talk about what the fuck that just was?" he asked.

"No," Declan answered.

Jiang pulled away. He hauled himself up onto the counter. It was stupidly hard, every muscle shrieking in protest. Stupid muscles. Jiang leaned his hands against the countertop and swung his legs.

"You sure?"

"I'm positive." Declan turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. He assessed Jiang. "You should be in bed. You look terrible."

"You didn't seem to think so last night," Jiang teased.

"Go back to bed."

"No."

“You need rest, Jiang. You can barely sit up.”

“No thanks to you.”

Declan's face closed off and he turned away. There was only the quiet scrape of a turner in a pan to fill the silence.

“It was a joke, D.”

Silence.

Declan slapped the turner down on the counter. His shoulders tensed, then slumped. "Why did you come back, Jiang?"

"Wha- I said I would." Anxiety oozed between Jiang's ribs. "I thought-"

"You thought what? This is why you get hurt, Jiang. You don't know when to walk away."

"Fuck you, "Jiang said, anger making his anxiety fizzle out. He shoved off the counter and crowded Declan against the stove. Let him burn. Jiang jabbed a finger into Declan's chest. "You fucking _coward_."

Declan's nostrils flared.

"You want to know how easy it was to get back here? It was fucking hard. Your brother took that jewel with him. Skov, Proko, Swan, they all left. It was just me and a thousand dead fae and all the fucking monsters that thought it'd be _such_ an _excellent_ idea to duke it out for the ruins of that stronghold." Jiang pressed his finger deeper. Declan focused on it and not Jiang's eyes. "So I had to go begging Koh and the fox for help without even having anything to trade for it." The fight going out of him, Jiang leaned his forehead against Declan's shoulder. His hand splayed on Declan's shirt for a second, then twisted in it. He laughed humorlessly. "And they gave it. They sent me back to Litchfield House and I waited for SickSteve to come for me. I waited and waited and waited. And then he brought me here and you let me in and now you're telling me you're the reason my life is fucked up?" He glared up at Declan. "That's bullshit, D. Even for you, that's fucking trash."

There were thumping footsteps on the stairs. Matthew was awake. Jiang shoved off of Declan, only to be caught by a hand on his arm.

"What do you want me to say?" Declan asked, voice a snarl of an undertone. "'I care about you?' I do, Jiang, I fucking do. But that doesn't change the fact that every time you get near me, you end up hurt and I'm not sure you're going to survive another hit."

"Did you ever think," Jiang snapped back at the same volume, "I might want to do more than just survive?"

"Jiang!" Matthew said, bounding into the room, "you're back!"

Declan let Jiang go.

"Hey, buddy." Jiang accepted Matthew's hug readily.

"Grab a plate," Declan said, turning back to the stove.

Matthew leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Declan's really missed you."

"Has he now?" Declan wouldn't meet Jiang's eyes. Figured.

They sat down at the kitchen table. Jiang couldn't help it. Not needing to eat made things boring. He slipped his foot out of his shoe and up Declan's shin.

Declan coughed and looked at him pointedly. Jiang only smiled.

Let him try to lie in front of Matthew. Jiang was going to find a way to break down those walls some way or other.

Jiang tucked his hand between Declan's thighs, thumb stroking the inside of his left.

"Stop that," Declan hissed.

"Why?" Jiang replied just as quietly.

Matthew, noticing none of this, tucked into his eggs with gusto. Declan had grated an enormousmound of cheddar cheese on top, which seemed an unnecessary amount of extra calories to Jiang, and Matthew was clearly enjoying them. Jiang wasn't positive he remembered what scrambled eggs tasted like. He considered for a second whether he had ever even eaten them.

"Are you going to stay here now?" Matthew asked Jiang. He had egg on his face. Jiang tapped at his own lip to show him and Matthew hurriedly wiped it off.

"That depends." Jiang glanced at Declan. "It's not up to me."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's Declan's house, isn't it?"

"But-"

"Now isn't a good time to talk about this, Matthew," Declan said.

Jiang placed his chin in his free hand and angled it to face Declan. "And when would be a good time?"

Matthew had finished his eggs and toast. Looking between Declan and Jiang worriedly, he grabbed his plate and headed for the sink. They were still staring at each other when he returned. He waited antsily for one of them to notice him.

"Hey, Declan," Matthew said when no one had acknowledged him, "I'm going to head to the library, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine," Declan replied.

Matthew slammed the front door on his way out. It wasn't long before a car engine started.

"The library?" Jiang asked.

"He's going to American University."

"Fancy." Jiang sighed and dropped his hand. He folded his arms and rested his cheek on them. "I'm not leaving without an explanation, D. What's going on in that head of yours?"

 

* * *

 

Declan Lynch had been trusting once. He had been pliant and goodhearted and over-eager to know the wonders of this world. Then he had been turned into a glaive to protect a spear and he had learned just how many people were out to hurt him and his family. Declan Lynch was only the first line of defense. In point of fact, he was _only_ defense. He was not a son.

He was someone whose desires and ambitions were second to the machinations of a scoundrel and a liar and a brother who didn't want to be a brother.

He was baptized in secrets and corruption. He had three phones in his messenger bag: one for his personal and political life, one for his father's work, and one for hunting. It was only after Niall that the two had become separate. It was only after Niall that anything had become separate. There was only one part of this Declan wanted but he had never been given a way out.

Because one day, even if he left all this behind, one or both of those two phones would ring and there would be consequences if he did not answer.

This was the truth of Declan's existence, in all realities: he was a tool in the hand of a man long dead and he would be for the rest of his life. It was safer to have a partner who knew nothing of his father's world. It was safest to have no partner at all.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he told Jiang, "any more than you already have been."

"I already told you, I don't care."

"I do."

Jiang's expression blackened. "You're going to have to do better than that. I've been hurt by a lot of people other than you. And I wouldn't say it's you who did the hurting this time but your brother. Do you blame me for what Kavinsky did to Matthew?"

"Yes." Declan didn't even have to think. Jiang had been complicit in Matthew's kidnapping. He had told Declan so, had tried to explain it away, as if he could. _You don't understand, D. K was never going to hurt him. It was all for fun._

_No one knew K was going to do what he did._

Retroactive apologies were without meaning. Jiang had not valued Matthew's existence. Matthew had absolved Jiang of blame in the aftermath. Declan hadn't.

Jiang clearly hadn’t expected Declan's answer. "Then why aren't you using that to push me away?"

Declan didn’t have words for that.

Jiang did. "I can ignore the terrible things if you can."

"I don't want to ignore them.”

"Then we're matched." Jiang extended a hand. "Tit-for-tat. You can't say everything you've ever done is worse than what I have."

Declan looked at that hand and then Jiang's face. He was serious. "They're not comparable."

"To you they are. You almost killed me; I almost killed Matthew. You gave me this," he touched the place on his neck where the amulet lay, "and I got you the jewel. We're even. What more do you want? Forgiveness? Acceptance?"

"You don't understand."

Jiang's eyes flashed. His nails dug into his palms. "What don't I understand, D? What more is there that I don't know?"

"I had to protect Matthew." He had chosen Matthew over Jiang. He wouldn't change that but, if it came to it, he would make that choice again. Jiang would never come before his brothers. That was the curse of being Declan Lynch. He could not stop protecting his brothers or abandon them because to do so would be to expose them to the worse kind of pain. People wanted to hurt Niall Lynch's family. They wanted to harness Ronan's power. They would not hesitate to use Matthew to do it.

"I know," Jiang said. He sighed, folding his arms back up and placing his head on them. "Your brothers come first. I can accept that. I've already told you so. D, I survived. What you did isn't that bad."

"Yes," Declan said, hitting the table with his fist. "It is. Remember the Fourth, Jiang. Or are you so willing to forgive that?" He didn't have to spell it out. Jiang knew exactly what he was talking about. After Kavinsky killed himself. After his toy fell asleep, just like every dream creature Niall Lynch had ever created before the fire had killed them where they stood. Jiang had been a wreck, purposeless and lost. "Even after what you did, I should have been there for you."

"Were we even really together?" Jiang mused. He still didn't get it. There was no path that would not lead to him being hurt. Declan had never been good for him, never could be good for him, couldn't be good for anybody. He should just be alone for the rest of his life.

"We could have been. Instead, I strung you and Ashley along. I left Ronan." Declan sucked in a breath. That was the worst of it. He had failed the only person he had been told not to. Declan's whole existence was predicated on Ronan's survival. His freedom, more importantly, from those who sought to use him. "I hated him. He was hurting and I turned my back on him. I told myself it was okay because I was taking care of Matthew and he had Gansey. It wasn't okay."

Jiang rubbed his cheek against his folded arms. "You're allowed to make mistakes, D."

 

* * *

 

"Am I? How many mistakes do I get to make before they become too many?"

Jiang didn’t know. He felt infinitely old and infinitely young. His mistakes and transgressions and stupidities could fill bookshelves.

"We could argue all this day," he told Declan, "and nothing would change. Your brothers are safe now. Ashley sees you as a friend. You want me; I want you. D, you want a life. I know you do. This can be it. You don't have tohold yourself back to protect me. Because I'll be a lot more miserable without you than with."

Declan stared at him. Time slowed to a crawl. WIthout either of his brothers to buffer him, Declan had no recourse for deflection. It was only him and Jiang and the very real weight of the choice he had to make. With every second that passed, Jiang became less sure of what Declan would do. If he had a beating heart, it would have pounded out of his chest by now and fled down the hallway.

Declan raised his hand and placed it on Jiang's cheek. He leaned in. Jiang's eyes slid closed.

Declan kissed him, soft and unsteady but happy, so fucking happy. _Finally_. Jiang wrapped his arms around Declan's neck, then his legs around his waist as Declan lifted him up and spun him around. A delighted laugh tore itself from Jiang's throat

He wanted this, more than anything else. To be here, with Declan, in this historical town house in a corrupt city. He wanted thick rugs and expensive alcohol and a master suite with Declan's things strewn all about.

Declan came to a stop. He rested his forehead against Jiang's and breathed deeply. "Thank you," he said, "for coming back."

Jiang smiled, as easy for Declan as he'd always been. It made sense now, in a knotted, torturous way, why he wasn't able to leave those two years behind.

Jiang didn’t particularly care for sense.

He did care that he could have this now and in a century or so, he could have his friends again. He might not be able to grow physically old but he could stay with Declan as he did. And that's appealing. Jiang may have lost Kavinsky again but he'd been given a second chance with people he thought would leave him behind.

Maybe what Skov was really saying wasn't _we don't trust you_ but _this is your chance to live a semi-normal life. When it ends, come back to us. We'll be waiting._

Or maybe he meant what he said but he left a path for redemption. The four of them, they had time.

With that thought in mind, Jiang kissed Declan. He let Declan take control, let himself be pressed up against the table, let Declan unzip his pants and sink to his knees.

Clutching Declan's shoulders as he hollowed his cheeks, blue eyes gazing up at Jiang to see if he was watching and a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. It was in that moment Jiang knew that he was impossibly, irredeemably, improbably in love with this man. He was a fucking fool for feeling so and yet here he was, getting head from a guy he had adored across two lifetimes.

 

* * *

 

“If Ronan repairs the ley line," Declan said as he washed dishes in the sink, "you could live here, in Alexandria.”

“I don't need the ley line,” Jiang replied from where he was leaning against the countertop doing a subparjob of drying. He peered at Declan from under lowered eyelashes. “I just need you.”

It was cheap and cheesy but, for now, it rang true. This was a life Jiang could have had before, one he had wanted. And what other choice was there? When he chose to help Declan, he bound himself to him. There was nothing else for him.

Jiang finished drying the last of the dishes and put them in the cupboard.

Declan wasn't the only Lynch he couldn't leave behind. There was one more connection he had madein that other life. 

Matthew Lynch was going to live a long time. Proko escaped his fate this time, but Matthew hadn't.

Jiang had cried on Matthew's shoulder once, the day they had decided to put the second Proko in the ground. Skov, Swan, and him, they had found no solution, no magic cure to wake him. The woods hadn't worked. They should have woken a dream because they were a dream but they hadn't.Skov had said this was what Proko would have wanted.

Matthew's mother was gone, then. He had cried, too, when Jiangpromised this would never happen to him.

They had agreed that dreamers were very cruel.

 _Do you remember?_ The wordskept threatening to come out, Jiang only holding them back at the last moment. Because how could he ask such a thing? How could he even promise it? He had the cintamani in his hands, the one thing that could have solved all this, and he let it go.

He could find it again. If Lynch was smart, he had kept it in his possession. Even if he wasn't, time wasn't running out for Jiang or Matthew. Even when Declan's number was up, when Lynch went to the grave, Jiang would find a way to protect the last of the Lynch brothers.

Because a dream, oncebrought to life, should neverbe put on hold.


	41. Chapter 41

The Barns were ashambles. The grass had grown back, long and flowing in the wind. One shed stood proud among its ruined fellows, scorch marks climbing their outer walls. Tree trunks were blackened and gaunt, showing evidence of the fire that had largely consumed them. A graveyard of incomplete cow skeletons, their bones long bleached by the sun and scattered by opportunistic scavengers, took up the space where the cattle barn once stood.

Out of all this, it was the house that showed the most damage. The barest suggestion of a framework and the fragmented lower third of an exterior wall were all that had survived. Only those who had been here before the conflagration would be able to discern it from the remains of the largest of the sheds.

Still, it was home. In time, he would restore it. Taking Opal's quivering hand in his own, Ronan walked into his past- and his future.


	42. Chapter 42

The ley line that ran beneath Singers Falls hummed under their feet. Its energy signature wasn't quite right, not yet. Lynch had been working on it, though, and it was much closer to what it used to be, what it _should_ be.

Sitting on a rough-hewn bench, Declan's arm slung around his shoulders, Jiang twined his finger in the hair poking overtop the open collar of Declan's shirt. He rested his head against Declan's collarbone, wrinkling his nose when Declan kissed the top of it.

A flash made Declan groan.

"You guys are cute together," Matthew said, looking up from his phone with a grin.

"And you should ask before you take someone's picture," Jiang replied. “Give me that.” He made grabby hands at the phone. Matthew handed it over.

Jiang looked at the picture and showed it to Declan. It was cute. Declan made an approving noise.

Jiang gave Matthew his phone back.

Lynch was attempting to talk Opal down from a tree. Jiang didn't see how she managed to climb up it with her little goat legs but then he saw a pale hand next to her. Noah had helped. Opal still had difficulty seeing him sometimes but he adored her, saying she was like a more level-headed Lynch.

He still hadn't passed on, Noah. He said he would one day. For now, Lynch needed looking after. Noah might not be the best for the job but, between all of them, they should be enough.

"It's one of my regrets," he said, "not being able to be there for him."

Jiang thought some lost people needed to find themselves on their own but he didn't tell Noah that. He'd move on when it was time. Jiang would, too, but he didn't suspect that time would come for a while.

For now, he would enjoy this, Declan, Ronan, and Matthew, alive, happy, and semi-healthy. They were together and he, somehow, was a part of it.


End file.
